


The Putzen Compound Affair

by Jazline



Category: The Man from UNCLE
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 74,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25665289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: In Pützen, Germany, Thrush had a well-hidden installation about to install new technology which could alter the security of the world at large.  Alexander Waverly sent his two top agents to stop this insanity.
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Pützen Hospital, Southern Germany**   
**Friday, 18 July, 1967**   
  
_Napoleon Solo's returned to consciousness crept upon him like the slow waves of a lazy ocean ebbing towards high tide. Garbled words and sensations would filter in and out and then return him to ebony darkness. Safe, comfortable darkness. Each time his brain teetered on the brink of rousing, he would slip back a few notches, unable to wake.  
_

_The scent of antiseptics sifted through, combined with the occasional clatter of small metallic objects meeting. Words finally began to discern a degree of clarity. Solo strained to hear the words and then make sense of them. People in the room spoke German. Mostly men, one woman.  
_

_He moved slightly. A muffled groan escaped from deep inside as a wave of pain washed over him.  
_

_"...increase the anesthesia before..." a German speaking voice said.  
_

_"...wearing off quicker than..." someone remarked.  
_

_"...maybe another half hour..." a deeper voice added.  
_

_A hospital? Solo thought just seconds before the blackness returned. He was finally safe._

* * * * *

"How the hell did I get here?" Napoleon asked in a groggy, raspy voice. He was lying on his right side with pillows propped against his back and belly to keep him from turning. Tubes and wires were attached to him, accompanied with the hums and beeps associated with hospital equipment.

A doctor in his mid fifties was tending to him. Solo knew him. Dr. Reuben Abramson, the hospital's chief physician, and one of the few people in the hospital who knew of the agent's presence. The tall, slender, silver-haired man sitting alongside Napoleon looked as though he hadn't slept in days.

Solo's mind began reel. The last thing he remembered was being suspended from the ceiling of a prison cell ...his clothes had been removed... he was beaten unmercifully ...a baseball bat struck him in the ribs ...then someone else began to strike him ...no... something pricked his skin first...

"Well, from what I heard, Illya stole Erich Von Koeinghoffer's personal car and brought you out of the prison," Dr. Abramson explained.

Napoleon attempted to move, but a knife-like pain in his left side prevented him. He winced and sucked in air between his teeth.

"You need to stay still as possible, Napoleon," the doctor began. "Two ribs on your left side were cracked and were hanging on by a thread. We had to pin them. Luckily, they didn't break completely and pierce your lungs or any other vital organs, but they did damage the surrounding muscles."

"So I see," Solo gasped. Other parts of his body were beginning to send him signals that they too were injured.

Dr. Abramson noticed his discomfort. He stood up and removed a vial of clear fluid along with a capped syringe from his breast pocket. The syringe was filled and its contents injected into Solo's IV line. The painkiller took effect seconds later.

"I can't relieve your pain completely, but this should help take off the edge. You need to feel the injury slightly so you don't lay on it and cause additional damage. If this isn't enough, let me know." The doctor paused, watching to see if Solo's pain had been allayed. "The rest of your injuries are bruises, cuts, and lacerations, some of which were very deep. You lost a lot of blood. Who interrogated you?"

"Erich Von Koeinghoffer, Josef Chalkler, and Franz Kaufmann," Solo answered.

"Their methods were rarely this sloppy. Some of these wounds look like they were inflicted by amateurs."

Napoleon managed a slight chuckle. "I became the subject of a ‘Master Class' at the camp. The 'students' were the amateurs."

"Your scarring should be minimal. Dr. Holtzman worked along with us. It took her an additional four hours to finish with you after I was done, but I knew you'd appreciate it."

Napoleon looked around, expecting to see his partner hovering about.

"Where's Illya?" he finally asked.

"He went back to the prison, Napoleon."

Solo's eyes widened. He tried to raise himself, but the pain through his ribs prevented it.

"I thought you said he brought me here in Von Koeinghoffer's car. Was he captured?"

"Almost. He planned to rendezvous with our helicopter five miles from the prison. Von Koeinghoffer began chasing you. Illya made the practical choice of staying back rather than allowing Thrush to capture you and several other UNCLE agents along with him."

Napoleon tried sitting up. The pain, along with a steady hand from Dr. Abramson stopped him.

"We've got to go back and get him out of there," Solo gasped as he held his side. "Do you have any idea what they will do when they recognize him?"

"Judging by your wounds, I do. He's safe at the moment, and besides, you're not in any shape to do it. You can't even walk, for goodness sake."

"I'll be all right..." Napoleon started.

"No....this is not negotiable."

Solo stubbornly tried getting up once more. Dr. Abramson removed a second capped syringe from his pocket. This one was pre-filled with a sedative. He silently stood up and injected it into the IV line. Napoleon saw what he was doing and tried avert its effects by removing the line himself, but in his weakened condition he was no match for the doctor. Dr. Abramson eased him back down on the bed as the sedative took hold.

**Outskirts of Pützen, Several Days Earlier  
Monday, 14 July**

The new band of Thrush guards entered the compound in the back of a canvas-covered military vehicle at noon. A checkpoint guard waved the driver through after checking credentials and the heavy iron gate slid shut from its pocketed enclosure once the truck cleared the entrance.

The facility was new, a prototype for possible emulation should it prove successful. Five buildings stood within the concrete-walled enclosure. A sixth was apparently under construction, with only a small portion of the foundation dug out within the wooden markers and roped off area. The entire complex took up less than an three square acres, allowing more room for expansion.

In the center of the compound stood Josef Chalkler, the commandant in charge, with 50 of his regular guards. Six new guards jumped off the back of the truck, all young and newly employed by Thrush. This was their post-training program in prisoner control. Truckloads of new recruits filter in periodically, allowing each new guard the opportunity to either prove himself worthy of Thrush or leave (if lucky) during the trial period. With each passing month the guards are elevated in status and pay, and have the opportunity to help ‘initiate' the lowly new recruits.

"Welcome to the Pützen Compound. I am Josef Chalkler, the Commandant of this prison and your superior officer. You've been sent here to finish your training as Thrush guards and soldiers, and during the next few months you will have the opportunity to prove your worthiness. I will tolerate no insubordination. You will have no time off, no breaks, very little time for recreation in your first few weeks here. Those of you who cannot adhere to my strict regulations may re-board the truck and leave."

No one moved.

Josef Chalkler slowly walked around each new man, scrutinizing every nuance. He read each guard's credentials and eyed them each up and down while they all stood at attention. Several displayed uneasiness, others appeared nonplussed. Among the fledglings was Karl Schlosser.

As Chalkler approached Schlosser, he sense an air of familiarity. Karl Schlosser was 23 years old, 5'7" tall, 140 pounds, with poker straight auburn hair and blue eyes. He read and reread the credentials, eyeing the new guard with each detail. Schlosser kept his eyes straight ahead, never breaking his gaze. Finally, Chalkler held the the papers up to the sunlight to inspect the watermark under the photo on the first page. Everything seemed in order. The commandant shrugged it off as simply one more newly appointed soldier who merely looked like another newly appointed soldier in his little army of 50. As Chalkler walked away, Illya Kuryakin smirked.

_A handsome man in his late 30's, Herr Chalkler worked his way up through the ranks of Thrush at an admirable pace. Generally, men his age were not readily promoted to second-in-command positions. But his superior and head of the German Thrush sector, Erich Von Koeinghoffer, saw leadership qualities in Chalkler and literally greased the wheels for the promotions, as well as groomed him for the job._

_But Josef turned out to be somewhat of a disappointment. When he began his tenure in Thrush, he was a medical student at Stuttgart University. Several months before graduation, he was expelled for stealing data from two other students and claiming he had done the research. Unfortunately for Chalkler, the two students kept copious notes and every scrap of paper they used to jot down information, proving that they were the authors of the work. Erich Von Koeinghoffer refused to admit he had used poor judgment in selecting Chalkler as his protégé, so he allowed the young man to retain his Thrush ranking and made him commandant of the prison. At least his medical training would unofficially come to good use._

  
Moments later, a whistle blew. The door to a wooden building opened and seven men walked out. Their lunch break was over and it was time for them to return to work. Herr Chalkler informed the new guards that these were the prisoners in his charge and that more would soon be added to their ranks. Illya eyed the group inconspicuously, recognizing them. The prisoners were comprised of Thrush agents who had fallen out of grace with the powers to be.

_Alphonso Siani and his brother Mario, who skimmed billions of Lira from Thrush's Milan installation were among the first to exit. They probably could have gotten away with it had they been a little less vocal about their swindle.  
_

_Close by was Sonny Lance, of sunny California, who had the misfortune of being caught with his pants down in the company of a high-ranking Thrush official's mistress.  
_

_Geoffrey Knowles exited next. Poor Geoffrey was simply inept. While trying to set up a brand new computer system in Ireland, he mistakenly laid his cigarette too near the vinyl tape which stored all the information he was about to enter. The tapes virtually disintegrated, as did his status with Thrush.  
_

_The following three prisoners left the dining hall as a small group, practically joined at the hip. Karl Mitzer, Peter Hopfsnagle, and Leland Pfizer. In a moment of sheer delusion, the trio felt they could undermine Erich Von Koeinghoffer's authority and stage a minor mutiny. Unbeknownst to them, Herr Von Koeinghoffer's supporters vastly outnumbered his dissenters, and the three men were immediately admonished for their actions. Kismet smiled upon them when this prison began operation simultaneously with their poor choice of action, with Herr Erich Von Koeinghoffer as its overseeing officer._

In the civilian world all their crimes would be considered victimless, since no irreversible damages were incurred in the process. But Thrush did not look upon these prisoners' actions as minor. Their offenses were too petty for a penalty of death, but did require some other measures. Rehabilitation was not an issue; their stay at Pützen was purely punitive. Hard labor, long hours, substantial but boring food, and 24-hour-a-day surveillance by the various rankings of guards was their fate. Some even believed the delusion that they may one day be released.

  
UNCLE's intelligence department was well aware of the Thrush installation deep in the woods of Southern Germany. A well-disguised mole was passing information to UNCLE's New York office. The use of the grounds as a prison was merely a façade, overshadowing the primary purpose for the facility.

Thrush began the installation of its international data system below the main building. Information on every Thrush agent was to be coded and placed in this state-of-the-art computer system, along with whatever information they could garner about UNCLE and its agents. Once set up and fully operational, the information could be disseminated world-wide with the touch of a button.

Illya was sent into infiltrate, assess, and diffuse the situation. He stole the identity of the real Karl Schlosser, whom UNCLE agents abducted as he got off the train from Dusseldorf. Their physiques were similar and Illya dyed his hair auburn to match Schlosser's description, disguising his own silvery blond. Kuryakin's command of the German language and its various dialects made him the perfect agent for the job.

Six of the seasoned guards left their ranks to escort the prisoners to their work area. Stakes marked off what appeared to be the foundation for a new building, and the seven men were forced to provide the labor to excavate the foundation. Each was handed a shovel and they began to dig within the waist-deep ditch. Within ten minutes, their sweat-soaked shirts came off under the midday July sun.

* * * * *

Josef Chalkler kept his remarks succinct, and within fifteen minutes, the new guards were given a brief tour of the complex.  
  
The first stop was the main building. The entire width comprised the complex's headquarters. Two desks filled part of the room. The one on the left hand side belonged to Chalkler. On the other side of the room sat Gretchen Fiedler, blonde, stunning, cold as ice. She looked up briefly as the new guards entered, eyeing each one momentarily. When her eyes met Karl Schlossler's, she her gaze delayed an inconspicuous fraction of a second longer. She then lowered her eyes and went back to work. Herr Chalkler explained that this was his headquarters and basically off-limits to his fledgling guards unless summoned. Three doors were situated behind the desks. The one on the left was Chalkler's apartment, and the one on the right was Fiedler's. Chalker escorted the men through the central door, his medical office. Several beds with built-in restraints sat in the center of the room. The perimeters were filled with medical supplies and equipment. Minimal but adequate for his needs. In the back were two doors. One led to a small examining and operating area, and the other to a rather large bathroom.

The next stop on the tour was the smallest building in the complex, just to the left of the office. A heavy lock was affixed to the door, which, at the moment, swung open freely. As the men entered, a stale acrid odor caused their nostrils to burn slightly. Some unfortunate person must have recently spent time within. The odor indicated that the room had been disinfected with something pungent to cover up another putrid, probably bodily, odor. An overhead light was turned on and six feet from the entrance was a wall of prison bars with a locked door, enclosing a 20 by 20 foot barren room. Herr Chalkler explained that this was unimaginatively called "the cooler," his interrogation area as well as his private prison cell for both prisoners and guards. The floor was concrete with a small vent in the center, obviously for drainage. A thin, stained mattress lay on the floor in one corner. Chains hung from the concrete ceiling in several places and small metal rings were attached to the floor beneath them. The room was windowless with one small air vent near the ceiling in the area they now stood. A rack of whips, bats, straps and other devious looking instruments stood in the space between the doors.

The third building, adjacent to the cooler, was the prisoners' quarters. Six bunk beds surrounded the perimeter of the room, allowing for twelve prisoners. There was ample space within the room to increase the population, if necessary. Narrow vertical windows were sparsely fitted into the walls and barred for security. Several wooden tables and chairs sat in the center. Decks of cards, crossword puzzle books and a few old magazines were strewn on the tabletops. A small bathroom with three commodes, sinks, and showers were in a windowless room at the end of the sleeping area. The shower stalls were open, except for a narrow strip of frosted plexiglas which would distort the view from each man's waist to mid-thigh, allowing a little privacy yet visibility.

As the new guards continued their tour, they passed the partially excavated foundation. This was going to be new prisoners' quarters, to be built by the existing prison population.

They walked past the entrance to the compound to the dining hall. Several steps led to the off-centered door. A foyer divided the building and sounds of men enjoying a midday repast waffled through the corridor. To the right was a small spartan room with one long wooden table and benches. Two trash cans sat by the exterior wall, filled with the remaining debris from the prisoners' meal. The room was dim and devoid of any sense of either bodily or spiritual nourishment. In comparison, the dining room to the left was a bright and cheerful looking. Smaller tables with comfortable chairs filled the room. Several guards were having their lunch when Herr Chalkler entered. They respectfully stopped their conversation and stood up. Chalker nodded to them, their signal to sit back down and continue whatever they were doing. The food smelled wonderful. Plates with food piled high sat on the tables in various stages of ingestion.

Their final stop was the guards' living quarters. At that point, Josef Chalkler excused himself and went back to the main building, relegating the remainder of the tour to a new escort. The guards resided in one large building. The interior consisted of a main hallway with four doors, two on each side. The fledglings were led to the first door. Their escort snickered as he opened the portal, revealing the most modest of accoutrements. The room had four bunk beds, allowing for only eight new guards at a time for their final training. Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling. Four wooden chairs and a rickety table were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. The bathroom consisted of one toilet, one sink, and one shower stall. Obviously, the guards would have to fend for themselves.

After dropping off their duffle bags, the escort showed them the other rooms in order of the guards' status. The second room was a step up from their own, with a few more creature comforts and a larger bathroom. The third room had a television, stereo and refrigerator in it, obviously for the most elite. After viewing the third room, the escort announced that the tour was over, and the fledglings were to report to the center of the compound at once.

No one was invited to view the fourth room.

The new guards looked at each other, wondering about the last door.

"Excuse me," Schlosser began, "but I thought we were going to see the entire building."

The escort walked over to him, standing face to face. He raised his hand and slapped Schlosser squarely across the face. It took every ounce of Illya's restraint not to ward off the blow or strike back; instead, he stood very still, seemingly unfazed by the hit.

"These are MY living quarters, Herr Schlosser. My name is Franz Kaufmann. I am the prison's disciplinarian and your immediate superior," the escort explained. "And no, you may not see it."

* * * * *

Illya was exhausted by the end of his first day as a Thrush guard. As usual, he had no problem sleeping. While the other men fussed and bickered like overtired children, Kuryakin curled up in his bunk and blocked out all the noise, allowing himself to sleep. One by one, the others settled themselves down and went to bed.

During the night, Franz Kaufmann entered and roused two of the sleeping guards, Karl Schlosser being one selected.

"You two, Blitzer and Schlosser...come with me!" Kaufmann barked.

The two guards hastily dressed and followed their superior out of the bunkroom. They were escorted to the main building. As they neared, Mario Siani was leaving the building, cradling a bandaged arm as he walked back to the prisoners' quarters. He sneered and chuckled as they passed.

"Looks like you two lucky stiffs get to clean up the mess, eh?" he laughed.

Kaufmann and his two guards entered the main building, and immediately went through the door to the medical office. Gretchen Fiedler was walking towards them, drying her hands.

"How did you get stuck with this?" Kaufmann asked her. "Chalkler out tonight?"

"No," she answered curtly. "He didn't feel like getting out of bed for this. I guess I'm just lucky." She turned to the two guards. "You two here to clean up?" she asked coldly.

The guards stood silently, not knowing what to say.

"They're all yours," Kaufmann said as he turned to leave. "Just send them back when you're done. I'm going to sleep."

"You're not going to oversee them?" She was seething.

"No. Good night." He turned and walked out the door.

"Damn. That means I'm stuck dealing with the two of you," she muttered, leading them to the mops, rags and disinfectants. After the guards armed themselves with cleaning paraphernalia, she showed them the area to be cleaned and disinfected.

_Mario Siani had gotten into a fight with his brother Alphonso. A usual occurrence. Periodically, they re-hashed their experiences and continually blamed each other for getting caught. This time, Alphonso was more aggressive than usual. He broke apart a chair and stabbed his brother with a sharp shard of wood, causing him to bleed profusely. They had made such a ruckus that several guards came in and eventually took him to the medical office for treatment._

  
After ten minutes, Jon Blitzer could no longer contain his nausea. Gretchen dismissed him nastily, leaving Schlosser to finish the job. Illya opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand, signaling him to wait a moment.

On her left hand was a ruby ring. With her thumb, she rotated the stone until it was within her palm, and then depressed the stone. Nothing. She closed the door and looked back up at Illya. No one was around at this hour of the morning, and Gretchen's ring indicated that the room was "bug" free.

The ring itself was rather ingenious. When depressed, the ring would illuminate slightly if listening devices were present, and buzz if video cameras were invading her privacy. In the presence of both, the ring vibrated slightly. At the moment, there was no eavesdropping equipment to invade their conversation.

"So, how have you survived your first day with us, Illya?" she asked, finally smiling.

"Let's just say I've had better," he replied, putting down the cleaning equipment.

* * * * *

_Gretchen Fiedler had been in Thrush's employ since the prison opened. Her Thrush credentials stated that she was a registered nurse who graduated near the top of her class. And she could type. After several months of not finding a satisfying job, she was approached by Erich Von Koeinghoffer about working for his organization. Decent pay with live-in accommodations included. She fit the profile of the type of woman both he and Josef Chalkler lusted after. Only she maintained a professional, safe distance, warding off advances from both of them.  
_

_She was one of those extraordinarily beautiful, talented women who also had the ability to become a chameleon._

_In reality, she was Gretchen Zeinreich, MD, PhD. UNCLE had followed her work since she began medical school in Germany during the mid 1950's. In a field dominated by males, Zeinreich let her presence be known, proving to her fellow students and the university that she could far surpass anyone in her class. She decided to delve into medical research and was hired by UNCLE to head a research lab.  
_

_When UNCLE's intelligence department began gathering information about the prison in Germany, Gretchen was a natural for their mole. Profiles of Von Koeinghoffer and Chalkler indicated that they were both drawn to attractive blondes. Her name was changed for the assignment, and a false bio was created with references that could vouch for her. She made sure her path would cross with Von Koeinghoffer, sealing the employment deal._

_The thought of doing field work intrigued her; she had spent entirely too much time in the lab, and often envied the glamourous lives of the field agents._

"Franz Kaufmann took an instant dislike to you," she said, chuckling. "He said that you had the nerve to question him. I guess that's why you're one of the lucky ones he chose to clean up this mess."

"Any word on the computer system?"

"Parts are coming in little by little. They're being installed under my apartment. Unfortunately, that means I have more Thrush goons wondering through my place on a daily basis."

Illya raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, don't worry. There's nothing here that could connect me to UNCLE. I don't even use my communicator. Believe it or not, I use my friend Marta. You may know her...Dr. Marta Holtzman?"

The name sounded familiar.

"We graduated medical school together," Gretchen continued. "She also works for UNCLE...at the Pützen Hospital."

Kuryakin nodded, recognizing the name. She patched him up once or twice.

"We talk often. Girl stuff, you know. But we have our own code system, so I can pass pertinent messages along without any connection to UNCLE." Gretchen snickered. "Right under Chalkler and Von Koeinghoffer's noses."  
  
The two of them finished cleaning and disinfecting the room, and in less than an hour, Gretchen escorted Schlosser to the front door. Franz Kaufmann was waiting there with arms crossed, impatient.

"What took you so long?" he snapped to Schlosser.

"I had to finish the job by myself," Schlosser complained.

Kaufmann turned his gaze to Gretchen.

"How did he do?"

"He was adequate," Gretchen began coldly. "At least he didn't vomit at the sight of blood like the other one you sent."

Kaufmann began walking away, motioning for Schlosser to follow. It was a mere few hours until dawn, leaving Illya only a short while to catch up on his lost sleep.

**Wednesday, 16 July**  
 **6 am**  
  
The new recruits were in the midst of their 2 mile run within the compound when a secured van entered the gates. A second vehicle, Erich Von Koeinghoffer's chauffeured car, followed. Franz Kaufmann halted his charges and barked an order them to line up, standing at attention. The six men obeyed immediately.

Von Koeinghoffer exited first, along with his entourage. One of his henchmen trotted over to the main building to summon Josef Chalkler. Seconds later, the van's driver got out and walked around the back of his vehicle. The passenger windows had been blackened and barred. A rear door opened and the unwilling passenger was bodily dragged outside, hands cuffed behind his back and ankles tethered in shackles with an extremely short chain. Facial bruises darkened his tan skin. Blood stains and rips covered his expensive white tailor-made shirt. His shoes and socks were missing, and it was apparent that he was having difficulty standing.

"Do any of you men know who this is?" Kaufmann asked his recruits.

Silence.

Kaufmann invaded one of his fledgling's personal space and stood nose to nose, asking the question once more.

Silence.

"I see none of you stayed awake in class that day," he shrieked, moving to the next recruit.

He then stepped close to the third guard. "Have you done your homework?" he yelled, grasping the uniform collar of his unfortunate victim who nervously shook his head ‘no'. The collar was released.

Karl Schlosser was the fourth in line. "Take a guess, Schlosser."

Schlosser thought for a few seconds.

"He fits the description of Napoleon Solo," he offered.

Kaufmann turned to the others, beaming.

"Well, at least one of you has the semblance of a brain," Kaufmann began. He turned back to Schlosser. "Very good. What can you tell us about him?"

Schlosser kept his gaze straight ahead, still at attention. He began to cite statistics which were general knowledge. "He an UNCLE operative, second-in-command in New York, bright, cunning, dangerous, attracted to beautiful women."

Franz Kaufmann broke a smile, chuckling slightly. "Yes, that sums him up very nicely."

Chalkler hurried out of the main building to join Von Koeinghoffer. Kaufmann rushed over as well. The three caucused for a few minutes, at which time more guards were summoned to deal with Solo.

From his location, Illya could see Erich Von Koeinghoffer beginning his interrogation. Several guards held up Napoleon while the Thrush chief strutted around him, striking him periodically with balled up fists. Solo said nothing at all. After ten fruitless minutes, the guards forcefully hauled him to the cooler. The soles of his feet were visible as he was dragged; they were covered with caked on blood and dirt.

"This is not a good day for Herr Solo," Kaufmann sighed with mock sympathy. "He was captured last night while he tried to infiltrate our little prison." A chuckle erupted. "Well, gentlemen, he'll get a real good look around now, won't he?"

The new guards, still at attention, remained silent.

_Franz Kaufmann was a a truly malicious man, mean through to the core. Several Thrush officials doubted that he even had a heart. Rumor had it that during World War II, his mother helped shield several Jewish families from deportation to Auschwitz. To advance his own status in the Third Reich, he reported her and subsequently oversaw her public execution. To this day, he has no regrets.  
_

_Thrush's credo of power and ruthlessness intrigued Kaufmann, and once the war ended, he sought employment._

_Now in his mid-forties, he was a man of average stature with fair hair, now graying. His deceptively pleasant appearance belies the true man inside. On numerous occasions, he himself had to be disciplined for going overboard during interrogations, leaving his prisoner either dead or too maimed to be of value. Despite this one flaw, Von Koeinghoffer felt he was the best suited of all his employees to handle the prison's discipline._

The outer and inner doors to the prison cell were opened. Solo was shoved in, pushed far enough so the barred door could be locked before he had a chance to turn around and attempt escape. Neither the wrist or ankle chains were removed, making it difficult for him to maneuver. The soles of his feet burned.

The night before, he was discovered outside the compound by the senior guards on duty and immediately subdued. Von Koeinghoffer was summoned and his interrogation began on the spot.

Solo fought back, using leverage from the guards' strong holds to kick Von Koeinghoffer with his chained feet. He did get in a few well placed blows before more guards descended upon him, subduing him even more.

The guards flipped him on his belly, face down in the dirt outside the compound and pointed rifles at his head. Shoes and socks were removed, then two guards bent Napoleon's legs at the knees, exposing the soles of his feet. Solo watched as Von Koeinghoffer slid the belt from his trousers and beat his soles until they bled. Napoleon tried to wiggle out of their grip, but he was drastically outnumbered and overpowered.

"You're lucky I didn't break your damn legs," Von Koeinghoffer growled as he grabbed the hair on Solo's forehead, raising his head off the dirt.

Napoleon silently glared at his captor as he was lifted off the ground. The guards stood him on his feet, causing him to wince slightly. He stood eye-to-eye with Erich Von Koeinghoffer. Similar height, similar build.

In the distance, headlights began to appear. _Friend or foe?_ Solo wondered. Foe. A Thrush security van stopped within inches of the battered Solo. In the darkness, the driver got out and opened the back door. The guards dragged Napoleon inside and then joined him before slamming the door shut and driving away.

A chill ran down Solo's spine as the cell door locked, followed by the slamming of the outer door and the inevitable sound of the lock securing it. He scanned the room briefly before the lights went out. Napoleon gingerly walked slowly at a 45 degree angle to where he perceived the mattress he scanned visually seconds before the darkness. When his toe met the fabric, he shifted his weight to fall on his knees, finally maneuvering himself to lie on his side. The pain from the interrogations during the past 24 hours made it almost impossible to find a comfortable spot to rest. He was hungry and thirsty, but assumed no food or drink would be forthcoming. As he lay on the thin mattress, Solo closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain and discomfort.

* * * * *

"How on earth did you get the likes of him?" Josef Chalkler laughed while pouring more coffee into Erich Von Koeinghoffer's cup. The two Thrush officials had just finished breakfast. Von Koeinghoffer spooned sugar into the black brew, then added cream before stirring it.

By the time Chalkler and Von Koeinghoffer finished their breakfast, it was well past 8 am. Gretchen had already begun her work day, and looked up from her desk with a disgruntled expression as the two men left Chalkler's apartment. Chalker simply shrugged and smiled.

Von Koeinghoffer walked over to Gretchen, smiling sweetly while taking her hand in his.

"Good morning, Fraulein Fiedler," he chirped, knowing an icy reception would follow. "You're as lovely as ever."

"Ja, Ja," she answered, barely looking up.

"So when do you think we could go out to dinner and spend a little time together, just the two of us?" he asked.

Gretchen looked up coldly.

"Aah, one day you'll realize that I'm actually a very nice person, my dear," Von Koeinghoffer cooed, moving even closer.

He left Gretchen's side and moved towards the door. His advances and her refusals had been ongoing since she joined Thrush's ranks. By now, it had become almost customary for him to proposition on her whenever they met; a long-running joke for both of them. Von Koeinghoffer actually wondered what he would do if she finally did agree to see him socially.

"I'll be back later, Josef," Von Koeinghoffer said before leaving. "For the time being, leave Solo where he is. I don't want anyone interrogating him unless I am present. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Chalkler responded. "I'll pass that on to Franz. You know how disappointed he'll be."

_Erich Von Koeinghoffer was born lucky. Born in 1928, the beautiful child of wealthy parents living in an upscale Berlin townhouse, he and his family did not feel the ravages of the depression and war. His father was an international investments' broker and illegally secured safe passage to Switzerland for his family before Hitler could confiscate their assets. They lived in relative luxury while the rest of Europe struggled. After the war, his family remained in Switzerland, giving Erich the freedom to receive an education and start a productive life for himself.  
_

_He wasn't satisfied, though. The traditional route of marriage, family, and job seemed dull...too pedestrian...and he wanted more. He found that women flocked to him, attracted to his exceptionally good looks. To appear more mature, he grew a beard which he maintains to this day, only now, both his beard and black hair are becoming streaked with gray. The thought of using dye crossed his mind, then he decided that he rather liked his appearance.  
_

_While travelling through post-war Germany, he set up shop as a black market trader. He had the resources to get anyone anything and used this to his advantage. Unfortunately, he stepped on Thrush toes as they were setting up shop. A burly Thrush guard hauled him into headquarters, asking his superior how they should handle this ‘situation'. Von Koeinghoffer charmed himself into a job, and eventually ran the black market operation within Thrush.  
_

_Slowly and steadily he rose through the ranks, ruthlessly clawing his way to one of the top rungs in the wake of missing and/or dead superiors. Once firmly entrenched as one of Thrush's top German officers, he made sure no one would follow in his footsteps by eliminating anyone who became (or even suspected of becoming) a threat to him.  
_

_Von Koeinghoffer's current status with Thrush gave him the autonomy to come and go as he pleased, no questions asked. Very few people really knew him well; he made sure of that. Even his personal guards were changed on a bi-weekly basis to avoid familiarity. Women in his life were fleeting, affording him no unsightly attachments. By choice he rarely, if ever, saw his own family. No one knew where he lived, but rumors suggested that he owned at least nine residences throughout the world, making it even harder to trace him. He covered his tracks with a series of aliases and deceptive measures to maintain his anonymity._

* * * * *

Shortly after arriving in the cell, Napoleon stood up and tried exploring his environs the best he could. The ankle chains permitted only very small steps and the welts on the soles of his feet made walking painful. He stepped on an upright metal ring embedded in the concrete floor, causing him to cry out. Realizing he was making no headway at all, Solo retraced his steps back to the mattress and once again laid down.


	2. Chapter 2

The lights were turned on. Napoleon squinted at their brightness as he tried to sit up. The outer door opened, allowing Von Koeinghoffer and Kaufmann to enter. Chalkler unlocked the barred, inner door, and the trio walked in to the cell. Kaufmann headed to a control panel tucked into the concrete wall and unlocked its door. He pushed a button, causing an overhead chain to lower. Chalkler stayed outside the central cell for a moment, selecting a few items from the rack.

Von Koeinghoffer walked to the mattress and brought a struggling Solo to his feet. Once standing, Napoleon was turned around and held against the wall while one handcuff was unlocked. Solo took advantage of the momentary freedom to swing himself around and lunge at Von Koeinghoffer, using the cuffs as a weapon to strike his captor's face.

Blood began streaming down from Von Koeinghoffer's temple. Solo next took hold of the handcuff's loose end in his free hand and wrapped it around the Thrush chief's throat. Immediately, Chalkler and Kaufmann were pulling him off their boss, pounding him with fists and kicks.

Solo's hands were cuffed in front of him and he was dragged to the overhead chain. The chain latched on to the central ring of the handcuffs, and the embedded metal ring on the floor latched on to the leg irons. Napoleon tried fighting them off, but they had the upper hand. Once the chains were attached, Kaufmann returned to the the control box and pressed another button. The ceiling chain was being pulled up by winches hidden within the concrete wall, raising Napoleon to his feet. The clasp holding the leg irons prevented him from kicking. The ceiling chain was pulled taut, elongating his body, fully stretching it out with his feet inches off the ground. Totally secured.

Several widths and thicknesses of straps were brought into the cell. Erich Von Koeinghoffer looked them over and selected a relatively thin one. Solo tried to settle himself, knowing what was to follow. His captor was starting small and planned to work his way up the more pain-producing implements.

The Thrush chief walked over to the tethered UNCLE agent and began beating him. The blows were carefully placed on Napoleon's back and legs, avoiding more sensitive and easily-damaged areas. He was a pro, and knew exactly how to interrogate his victim by inflicting the most pain with the least bodily damage.

Solo clenched his teeth with each blow, trying not to give his captors the satisfaction of hearing outcries. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. His chest heaved with each strike. Sweat began to sting his bleeding wounds. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

The beating stopped. Von Koeinghoffer walked around so he and Solo were face to face. The bleeding on his temple had subsided, but the blood stains on his shirt stood witness to Napoleon's aggression.

"There is a lot of information I need from you," Von Koeinghoffer stated. "You have the choice of making it either easy or hard on yourself. To begin with, why were you sent here?"

Napoleon simply glared at his captor once more, not saying a word.

"I don't know how much you know about my two officers, Herr Chalkler and Herr Kaufmann," the Thrush chief continued, "but I know for a fact that they derive a certain pleasure from torturing people. As a matter of fact, Herr Kaufmann borders on the sadistic. Now, let me give you the options again. Talk to us now, or talk to us later...if you can. Who sent you and why""

"I was looking for a vacation spot to bring the family," Solo finally said. "You know...a nice little place in the woods. Gotta get that city air out of our lungs once in a while."

Von Koeinghoffer nodded to his officers and stepped back. He then left the building. For the remainder of the afternoon and into early evening, the Thrush officers took turns interrogating Solo. They still received no pertinent information.

* * * * *

The overhead chain was lowered and removed when Kaufmann and Chalkler finished for the evening. They kept the clamp holding the leg irons in place, averting any threat of escape. Solo felt as though every inch of his body was either cut or bruised. The lights were shut off before he had the chance to assess his wounds. In the darkness, he moved each limb. No broken bones. His belly and abdomen hurt, but he didn't feel as though any internal organs were effected by the abuse.

The best he could do was curl up on the hard concrete floor and stave off the waves of pain as best possible. Napoleon's body tremored each time the pain coursed through him. The hunger was gone, replaced by nausea. His agony intensified with no respite as the hours passed.

* * * * *

The affair had not gone as planned. Had things worked out on schedule, Solo would not be lying on a hard floor writhing in pain. UNCLE's intelligence sources had estimated that the entire computer system was to be fully operational by early to mid-July. Illya was to enter the camp several days before Napoleon's planned ‘capture'.

While Thrush was involved with Solo, Kuryakin was to wire the computer with time delayed explosives, then he, Solo and Gretchen were to slip out of the camp and head back to UNCLE headquarters.

Extraneous glitches thwarted their scheme. The components were arriving behind schedule and when they did arrive, parts were often missing or broken. Very few people understood the new technology or how to set up the system properly, creating more delays. On the date planned for its destruction, the final components were scheduled to arrive. They did, but many were inoperable and had to be returned, thwarting Kuryakin's plan.

No one anticipated Napoleon's treatment. For as long as the prison had been operational, very little disciplinary action was taken by either Von Koeinghoffer, Chalkler or Kaufmann. The last time anyone occupied the prison cell was when the mutinous trio arrived. Karl Mitzer, Peter Hopfsnagle, and Leland Pfizer had been immediately escorted to the cooler. Erich Von Koeinghoffer took distinct pleasure in making their lives miserable and somewhat uncomfortable.

* * * * *

The room lit up again. Chalkler and Von Koeinghoffer entered this time to see how Solo had fared. The Thrush chief's facial wound had been treated with a small butterfly bandage to keep the edges of the open gash together. He changed into a clean shirt, annoyed that he would have to discard the blood stained one.

Chalkler lifted Napoleon's shirt and touched several gashes. Infection was beginning to set in. The UNCLE agent shut his eyes tightly to ward off any sounds, but found he could not avoid gasping loudly at the touch. Von Koeinghoffer helped turn the agent so Chalkler could look at his back.

For the first time, Solo got a general idea of how badly he was injured. His life's blood stained the floor and his clothing, but the amount lost was nowhere near fatal. Cuts, gashes, bruises. He was feverish and dehydrated.

"Do you have anything to tell us?" Chalkler asked while holding the UNCLE agent face down on the floor.

"Absolutely nothing," rasped Solo, in a flat voice.

Chalkler kicked him in the ribs several times, then crouched down and asked again. Napoleon just glared back at him.

The two Thrush men nodded to each. Chalkler unfastened the clamp securing the UNCLE agent's feet to the floor while Von Koeinghoffer pulled Solo's cuffed hands from under him. Kneeling with one knee on Napoleon's back, the Thrush chief unlocked one handcuff and then quickly brought the two arms behind the downed man. They lifted him by the armpits.

"Can you walk?" Von Koeinghoffer asked abruptly.

"I seriously doubt it," Napoleon gasped.

Two guards were summoned from outside and given instructions to bring Solo into the main building. They obeyed and began dragging him from the cell. Napoleon realized it was useless to put up a fight, so he went without a struggle.

Gretchen was just finishing up her reports when the guards brought Solo into the office. It was well past 8 pm and she was annoyed at having to work late, making no strides to hide her feelings.

"You're not leaving him here, are you?" she scowled. "It's Herr Chalkler's turn to heal the wounded."

"We just have our orders, Fraulein. Herr Von Koeinghoffer told us to bring him here," one of the guards explained, adjusting his grip on Napoleon.

"Just don't let him touch anything. He's absolutely filthy."

Von Koeinghoffer and Chalkler walked through the door.

Gretchen moved closer to the wounded agent, observing him from all angles. "So this is Napoleon Solo," she started, touching his face. "Not at all what I expected." Napoleon pulled his head back slightly, trying to avoid her touch.

"I'm glad you're still here Gretchen," Chalkler said. "I can use your help."

"Don't count on it, Josef. I've been working for the last 12 hours. The last thing I need is to hear him screaming all night," she hissed and pointed to Solo. "Besides, you got me out of bed two nights ago to sew up Mario Siani's arm. This one's all yours." She began to move around her desk and accidentally bumped into several stacked files, causing their contents to spill out as they fell. One guard held on to Napoleon while Gretchen and the other three men helped pick up the papers.

No one saw Gretchen touch Solo's thigh and discreetly inject the contents of a syringe into it. He stiffened slightly as the needle entered his leg, but after realizing what she was doing, stood still while she finished. Once the files were off the floor, she briefly thanked them and headed to her apartment.

Von Koeinghoffer walked behind her, speaking softly. "I never did properly thank you for taking care of this," he said, pointing to his temple. "Can I stop by later?"

"Don't count on it," she whispered back. "It was all part of the job. Good night."

Chalkler was snickering. "You never give up, do you?"

"She wants me." Von Koeinghoffer mused. "And we both know it."

Solo was taken into the medical office.

"Is she always that pleasant?" Napoleon asked, trying to stall for time. He felt no effects from the drug Gretchen had just given him.

"Not really. You actually saw her on a good day. She's usually nastier," Chalkler replied. He turned to Von Koeinghoffer. "Why the hell did you hire her anyway?"

"Her typing skills," he answered dryly.

The guards took Napoleon to the washroom and removed his clothes. His skin literally felt as though it was being torn from the flesh as the blood-caked fabric was removed. After a few minutes the UNCLE agent could no longer remain silent. His outbursts echoed throughout the tiled room.

Finally, the drug took effect. Solo felt the pain fade away in the few short seconds it took him to lose consciousness.

The guards continued cleaning up the UNCLE agent, then they carried his motionless, naked body to the examination room. Chalkler inserted an IV line to administer intravenous antibiotics and fluids. Chalkler and the guards cleaned the wounds while Von Koeinghoffer sat back in a comfortable chair and merely observed.

It was almost midnight when they finished. The IV line was removed and Napoleon was hastily dressed in a white t-shirt and gray loose fitting pants. The guards carried him to the prisoners' quarters and dumped him on an empty bed, using handcuffs to secure him to the frame. Napoleon Solo would remain mercifully unconscious for the next six hours.

* * * * *

**Thursday, 17 July**  
  
By 6:30 am, the prisoners were roused from their sleep and dressing. The muffled sounds of still sleepy men moving about began filtering in through Napoleon Solo's fogginess. As he woke from the unconscious state, his pain increased. He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. He was lying prone on his belly, and the area beneath his body was thankfully soft.

Two people were speaking in Italian, nudging him. They obviously knew who he was. Solo's eyes opened to Alphonso and Mario Siani asking him what he was doing there. In fluent Italian, he responded that he wasn't quite sure...and where was he anyway? They explained and then introduced themselves. _Aah yes, the embezzlers_ , Solo recalled.

Geoffrey Knowles appeared next and introduced himself. _I doubt they'll ask_ ** _you_** _to set up the computer system_ , Napoleon mused silently. Alongside Knowles was Sonny Lance, who Solo assumed would make better choices of women in the future.

Finally Karl Mitzer, Peter Hopfsnagle, and Leland Pfizer stopped by Solo's bunk to make their presence known. They spoke in German about how harsh their captors were, still complaining about Von Koeinghoffer like a pariah. Napoleon absentmindedly nodded.

Solo heard a door open. The prisoners stopped in their tracks, and seconds later large grins appeared on their faces.

"Will you take a look at this?"

"Are you here to see me?"

"I didn't know you made house calls?"

"I think I feel an illness coming on!"

Napoleon had no idea what the jesting was about, but understood immediately when Gretchen Fiedler walked over to him carrying a small black medical bag. She was wearing a simple white sundress with a yellow daisy pattern. Gretchen ignored their remarks and proceeded to unlock his manacles. Silently, she turned Napoleon on to his side. His body automatically curled up.

Two guards entered and ushered the prisoners outside for breakfast. One of the pair walked over to Gretchen, asking if she was all right ...did she need any help? ...was Solo being contrary? ...was she safe with his handcuffs removed?

"Will you look at him?" she snapped. "Does he **_really_** look like he'd impose any kind of a threat?"

Once the room was quiet, Gretchen held up her hand, signaling Solo to remain still. She tested the indicator on her ring, chuckling when the warning light blinked. She moved around to find the listening device. The ring blinked brighter the closer she got until it was found. She picked it up and placed it under Napoleon's mattress, once more checking her ring to insure their privacy.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked sweetly, a far cry from her Thrush persona.

"Yes, thanks to you." His voice was raspy from thirst.

Gretchen opened the medical bag, taking out two vials and a syringe. She pierced the needle into the first vial of clear fluid, then into the second, a thick white substance.

"Chalkler left me a note this morning, asking me to give you another shot of antibiotics if I got up before him. They were a little overzealous with you yesterday, and I think they're afraid you'll do something silly like die from an infection." She bent over him and injected the contents into his upper arm.

"What's the other drug?"

"The clear one? That's my ‘baby', a pain killer. By..." Gretchen checked her watch. "...now the pain should be gone."

The relief began flowing throughout his body. He closed his eyes, sighing audibly.

"That's really good. You developed this?"

"Ja. You'll still feel heat and cold. If you're hungry or have to use the bathroom, your body will signal you." Gretchen lifted his shirt to inspect his wounds. She curled up her lip at the sight of the raw, red gashes.

"That bad?" Solo asked.

She nodded. Her hands gently pressed his belly and abdomen to feel for swelling. Then she rolled up legs of his trouser one at a time to check the wounds inflicted there.

"What was in that shot you gave me last night? I slept like the dead."

"Another one of my concoctions," she said proudly, putting a thermometer in his mouth. "I designed that particular knock-out drug to sedate the person about 10 or 15 minutes after the injection. How would it have looked if you keeled over as I was giving it to you? Sit up, please."

Gretchen rifled through her medical bag again, smiling when she found what she was looking for. Seconds later, she stood up, holding a small plastic box in her hand. She sat down on the bed next to Napoleon and motioned for him to lie down on her lap. Solo raised his eyebrows and smiled, following her orders willingly.

"I want to put an oral dose of the sedative in your fake molar. It's the last one on the upper right, isn't it?"

Napoleon nodded mutely with the thermometer still in his mouth. Thirty seconds later she read the results.

"Your temperature is slightly over 100. The antibiotics should take care of that. Now, back up a little, Napoleon," she said, helping position him so his head hung back over the edge of her lap.

"OK. Open your mouth...good, good..." Her thumb and forefinger opened the compartment hidden within the molar, then tweezers were used to insert a small pellet. The procedure took seconds.

When Gretchen finished, she gently closed his mouth and slid her hips under Solo's head so it no longer dangled over her lap. "That wasn't too bad, was it?" she asked while brushing the hair off his forehead. She helped raise him back to a sitting position.

"That drug takes about fifteen minutes to work and will last about four hours. If you dislodge it accidentally, just spit it out. The only way it will be activated is when your stomach acids disintegrate the outer coating."

"And you developed this one too?" Napoleon asked.

Gretchen smiled. "Don't forget that my real job is drug research and development. I'm doing this undercover thing as a personal favor to Mr. Waverly."

"You're pretty damn good at it."

Gretchen stood up and took a large plastic cup from her medical bag. She headed to the bathroom and filled it with water. Upon her return to Napoleon's bunk, she reached into the bodice of her sundress and removed a plastic vial which had been nestled between her breasts.

A smile and then a chuckle came from Napoleon as he watched her do this.

"You're really taking this spy stuff seriously, aren't you?" he mused.

"I assume you're thirsty," Gretchen said, dropping three dime-sized wafers into the water. "These will give you plenty of calories, some electrolytes, a little potassium, plus a few other goodies to keep you alive and kicking."

She handed him the cup.

Solo drank the water so rapidly that he was practically breathless when he finished. Gretchen took the cup from him, raising her eyebrows to question whether or not he wanted more. He silently nodded, still catching his breath.

The second cup was polished off almost as quickly as the first, and he asked for a third.

By the third cup, his paced had slowed. Gretchen brought him plain water this time.

"I hate to do this, but I'm going to put a few of the cuffs back on you." The blonde agent secured his right hand and right ankle to the bed frame, allowing for him to remain sitting.

Solo nodded, realizing that Gretchen needed to keep this process as professional looking as possible. He sat on the bed with his back propped against the wall, taking small sips. Gretchen sat in a chair across from him.  
  
Several minutes later, the door opened. Gretchen reached into her pocket and pulled out an emery board. She crossed her legs and nonchalantly began filing her nails.

Josef Chalkler walked in.

"I see you got my message, Fraulein Fiedler," he said, nearing Gretchen and Solo.

Impatiently, she looked up from filing her nails. "How the hell could I miss it?" she replied coarsely. The filing continued. "You're up early," Gretchen continued, not looking up this time. "I thought for sure that you would have been up half the night mending him."

"Almost half the night. I see he's still alive. Is he behaving himself?" Josef paused, noticing the water cup in Napoleon's hand. "What's this?" he asked, examining the contents.

"Water."

Chalkler took a taste, satisfied that the cup contained only water. "We'll discuss this later." He opened the door and summoned two guards to take Napoleon out to the cooler. His hands were once again cuffed behind his back . The memory of the horrendous pain was so fresh in his mind that Solo had no difficulty simulating a painful exit. From a distance, Karl Schlosser watched, maintaining his impassive facade despite his concern.  
  
"I didn't tell you to give him anything to drink," Chalkler's voice raised dramatically, annoyed with Gretchen's initiative. They stood face to face in the prisoners' quarters.

"Then please explain your goal to me." Gretchen glared at him.

Chalkler raised his eyebrows. "My goal?" he asked, mocking her.

"Did you plan on keeping him alive?" she seethed.

"As opposed to what?"

"He's dehydrating, or haven't you noticed. During the past 24 hours he has sweat profusely and lost a lot of blood. I assume you hydrated him last night, but by this morning he needed fluids again. It was a judgment call."

"You weren't hired to make judgment calls." Chalkler was yelling now.

"No? Then save your own ass for now on. I refuse to do it."

Gretchen turned around and stormed towards the door. Josef followed, slamming the door shut immediately after she opened it. He held out his arm, barring her departure.

"What was that supposed to mean?" His tone was a bit softer now.

"That means that next time I foresee an imminent problem, I'll sit back and let it run its course. You can deal the consequences yourself. Now get out of my way."

She tried forcing the door open, knowing very well that Chalkler's grip would prevent it. Gretchen elbowed him in the ribs, catching him off guard. Josef chuckled at her aggressive attempt, then stepped back and allowed her to leave.  
  
Von Koeinghoffer stood impatiently as he waited for them to return to their office. He observed Solo being taken to the cooler several minutes before Chalkler and Gretchen exited the prisoners' quarters.

"I'm tickled to see Mr. Solo alive and well this morning," the Thrush chief stated. "I fully expected to hear about his untimely death." Von Koeinghoffer walked towards the door. "I have several today meetings but I plan to return by late afternoon. Make sure he's still alive." He turned to Gretchen, smiling. "Good Morning, Fraulein Fiedler."

She simply nodded, never looking up.

Chalkler walked over to her desk once his boss left.

"This is probably the closest think you'll ever get as apology from me...but you were right." He stood up and walked away. Gretchen found it difficult containing her amusement.

Solo heard the outer door open and room brightened. While he had waited in the darkness, Solo maneuvered his manacled hands from behind him to in front since this time, his feet had not been chained to the floor.

Two young guards entered the inner cell, laughing and challenging each other to extract information from their prisoner. They swaggered over to the slumped UNCLE agent and pulled him to his feet. Catching them off guard, Napoleon attacked. The first guard fell almost instantly as Solo struck him with two clasped fists. The second guard lunged at the agent from behind, but Napoleon flipped him over his shoulder.

They struggled on the floor momentarily before the guard got the upper hand. He pulled a knife from his boot and waved the blade menacingly near Solo's face. The Thrush guard plunged forward, but Napoleon averted his strike by grabbing the weaponed wrist and pinning it behind his back as he slammed the young man into a wall. The knife fell to the floor. Napoleon picked it up with lightening speed and slid it between the guard's ribs, killing him almost immediately.

Solo went through the guard's pockets and found keys to unlock the handcuffs. Seconds later, the UNCLE agent's wrists were freed and he escaped the cell.

Once outside, Napoleon looked about frantically to find a way out of the compound. Surprisingly, no one noticed his presence. In the distance, he caught sight of Illya, who had been surreptitiously watching the cooler as he guarded the main office. Kuryakin motioned slightly with his head, instructing Napoleon to go around to the back of the cooler.

The sound of trucks' engines entering the compound soon filled the air. The doors to the prison remained opened as the convoy of six trucks began filing through the entrance.

 _These must be the computer parts_ , Solo thought.

He ran behind the cooler and then behind the prisoners' quarters, thankful that Gretchen's pain killer had not yet worn off. Several older guards stood by the entrance causing Napoleon to retreat slightly, crouching down to avoid detection. In the distance, a voice...a familiar voice...called, asking for more hands to unload the truck.

The voice got louder and closer, finally coaxing the guards to leave their post to help move the computer parts. Illya had managed to clear the path for Solo's escape.

Napoleon continued his path to the compound's exit, crouching low to remain unnoticed. His position was secure until the last fifteen feet before the large metal door, where he would be in plain sight. So far, the Solo luck was holding out.

As Illya walked back towards the main office, he overheard one of the guards talking about their two downed comrades in the cooler. The guard turned on his walkie-talkie and alerted Chalkler. Immediately, Kuryakin heard the huge metal door shut, cutting off Napoleon's escape route.

Illya turned around and ran to the entrance as a guard on the lookout for an escaped prisoner. He found Napoleon before any of the others.

"Someone found those two idiots who paid you a visit earlier," Illya said, crouching down beside Solo. "Unfortunately, Chalkler may not look too kindly upon your actions."

Napoleon chuckled. "I assume you'll have to take me in."

Illya saw Solo's jaw shift in a motion he recognized as accessing something in the hollow molar. He then saw

Napoleon dry swallow its contents.

"Knock out drug?" Illya whispered.

"Yes. Fifteen minutes to work."

"I'll go easy on you," the blond agent smiled. "You're moving fairly well for someone who's had the crap knocked out of him."

"Courtesy of Gretchen."

They heard the sounds of guards hustling around them, trying to find Napoleon. Illya moved around to Solo's back and gently broke open several of the wounds. He smeared some of the blood on Solo's side and chest, then a little on his own guard's uniform and fists before dropping the shirt over the exposed wounds. It took only seconds to look like the UNCLE agent had been beaten again.

Karl Schlosser lifted a still conscious Napoleon to his feet, trying to stall as long as possible before the real guards found them. As they heard the Thrush men closing in, Schlosser dragged an almost unconscious Solo from behind the prisoners' quarters.

"I found him back here, trying to escape," Schlosser hissed, showing what appeared to be sore, blood-stained knuckles. "Here, take him...he's all yours."

Schlosser bodily threw Solo into the hands of the guards. They immediately brought him to the ground to subdue him, but Napoleon never even felt their blows. Unconsciousness spared him their abuse.

Karl Schlosser cleaned up and changed his clothes before returning to his post at the office. The transfer of materials was still taking place as a steady stream of Thrush men carried box after box into the main building.

Kaufmann brought him inside to question him about about Solo's capture. The agent skillfully convinced the Thrush disciplinarian that he overheard other guards talking about Napoleon's escape and he immediately set out to look for the UNCLE agent. He found and overwhelmed his quarry, then turned him over to his senior guards when they arrived.

After a brief congratulatory pat on the back, Schlosser was ordered to help move the boxes. Illya smiled inwardly as he picked up a box and carried it through Gretchen's apartment and down a narrow staircase to the computer room. His first chance to see the computer he was sent to destroy.

By the time Illya got into the room, the majority of boxes had been delivered. He scanned the room briefly then bent down to tie his shoe, inspecting the packing slip on several boxes. Generator. Control Circuit. Main Housing. It would take days to get the system up and running. A simple cache of plastic explosives would prevent that from ever occurring.

A security system was placed on the computer room door, allowing no one entry except Erich Von Koeinghoffer. Gretchen voiced her objection to her apartment being the portal. She complained that she wouldn't have a moment's peace, accusing Von Koeinghoffer of purposely planning it that way.

Gretchen had been complaining and fussing over the men traipsing through her apartment. She was relentless and quite convincing. The entire troupe of workers chuckled at her performance, shaking their heads as they passed Josef Chalkler. She noticed Karl Schlosser snickering as he passed her desk for the final time.

"And what the hell are you laughing at?" she growled.

Schlosser smiled and raised his hands defensively, shaking his head as he walked out.\

Four senior guards were positioned inside the prison cell with Solo. Chalkler's instructions were to keep him under tight security until Von Koeinghoffer returned. They stood around the unconscious agent waiting for any sign of life. Less than four hours later, he stirred.

Napoleon felt himself being physically rolled on to his back. He feebly tried pulling away, but his efforts were averted. Next his arms were pulled, and soon he felt the familiar manacles being locked around his wrists. The legs and ankles followed. Only this time his arms and legs were spread apart, chained to the concrete floor.

Movement was difficult and painful. As Solo regained full consciousness, reality of his situation became increasingly apparent. The guards stood around him with guns drawn, watching his every move. He was chained to rings anchored deep within the concrete floor.

Solo squinted against the bright ceiling lights as he scrutinized the guards. The nearest man was wearing a wristwatch which was in Napoleon's line of vision. Almost 2:30. Gauging the potency of Gretchen's drug, he assumed it was afternoon, several hours after his thwarted escape attempt.

"Could one of you gentlemen get me something do drink?" he asked in a hoarse, raspy voice.

Without a word, the guard with the wristwatch kicked him in the ribs, forcing the air out of Solo's chest.

"I assume that means ‘no'," Solo said, gasping.

By 6 pm, the Thrush chief returned from his meetings. Chalkler chose to wait until his boss' return to tell him about the death of the young guard and Napoleon Solo's subsequent escape attempt.

"You couldn't keep tabs on him for one day?" Von Koeinghoffer seethed, his face reddening with anger.

"He was secure until the two new guards entered the cell on their own," Chalkler tried to explain.

"And just why would they do that?"

"I don't know." Chalkler seemed just as irate as his boss. "Gentzler survived this. He's in the medical unit...why don't you ask him?"

Von Koeinghoffer pushed his Commandant out of the way and stormed into the medical office. He returned several minutes later, mumbling Gentzler's sentiments about trying to get Solo to talk.

Erich Von Koeinghoffer entered the prison cell and crouched down next to Napoleon.

"Now let me get this right, Herr Solo. You killed one of my guards and left another with a serious concussion. Then you attempted to escape. You honestly thought you could get away with this?" Von Koeinghoffer asked in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

"They were extremely stupid. They came in on a testosterone surge totally unprepared to protect themselves. And they even left the door open. Erich," Solo tried to smile, "you're not training them as well as before."

After a brief nod from their boss, the guards began kicking the downed agent, stopping only when ordered.

"I haven't had my dinner yet," Von Koeinghoffer said quietly. He looked up at the four guards. "Keep an eye on him until I come back." He turned to walk out the door. "Any problems, contact me immediately."

Gretchen was still in a snit when the Thrush chief came in for dinner. Von Koeinghoffer himself was not in the greatest of moods, but he realized the benefit of smoothing her feathers before venting his own anger.

"They came plodding through like cattle," she huffed, pointing to the grayish marks coming from under door.

"May I?" Von Koeinghoffer politely asked as he turned her doorknob. He opened the door and viewed the mess left by the battalion of men who crossed her threshold that afternoon. As he walked in, he motioned for Gretchen to follow. She obeyed, muttering under her breath.

The door was closed behind her as Erich Von Koeinghoffer placed his arm around her shoulders.

"Listen, my dear," he started softly. "I know we've had our differences and at this precise moment you probably want to stab me in the heart. But I, too, have had a hellish day. My comrades at Thrush Central have once again proven to be imbeciles, and on top of that, I have this situation with Solo to deal with. Not to mention one dead guard who was probably even too young to shave." He removed his arm from her shoulders and held his hands up, palm forward, as if surrendering. "Please, Gretchen...cut me a break. All I want to do at the moment is see what has been delivered and then sit down to a quiet dinner before dealing with everything else." His voice remained calm and quiet. "I promise to take care of your concerns later."

Gretchen smiled and nodded. This was their first civil moment in a long time.

"Take a look at what they delivered and I'll order you something from the dining hall," she offered. "What would you like to eat?"

"Anything, as long as it's rich and fattening. I deserve it," he chuckled as he unlocked the door to the underground computer room and made his descent. "Oh," he called up from the stairway, "you will join me, won't you?"  
  
Chalkler watched with an amused look on his face as Gretchen came out of her apartment.

"Well you've calmed down," he stated, observing her more relaxed demeanor. "Is Erich's charm starting to work on you?"

Gretchen sighed and shook her head, trying to ignore his response. She picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the number for the dining hall. While she waited for them to answer, she looked up and Josef and asked if he had eaten dinner yet. He nodded. When the cook answered the phone, Gretchen asked what was available that dinner then ordered for two.

"Seafood bisque...lamb chops...potatoes au gratin...aah good, you have creamed spinach this evening. For dessert?" she paused while the selections were offered. "Hmmm, I can't make a decision. How about one of each? When will that be ready?" Another pause. "Fifteen minutes is fine." She hung up the receiver.

She looked up at Josef's surprised expression.

"He said he wanted his dinner to be rich and fattening," she shrugged. "Can you think of anything else to order?"

"You're having dinner with him?"

"I asked if you've eaten and you said ‘yes'...otherwise I would have ordered for three. What's the problem?"

"You're having dinner with him?" Chalkler repeated.

"He was almost pleasant for a moment. Call me gullible," Gretchen explained sarcastically. She smiled and chuckled. "Don't dust off your tuxedo just yet."  
  
Fifteen minutes later the dinner arrived in a box full of foil-covered platters.

"You're either a very hungry young lady...or you have a dinner guest," the man snickered, placing the box on her desk.

"Yes," she responded to both his concerns as she lifted up the edges of foil on one plate. "This smells pretty good. Almost edible. Thank you," she said, dismissing the delivery man.

The aroma surpassed ‘pretty good' and bordered on ‘wonderful'. She carried the box to her apartment door, juggling it in her arms as she attempted to turn the knob. Seconds later she walked through the portal and allowed the door to slam behind her.

Von Koeinghoffer was coming up the stairs as she entered.

"Perfect timing," he said as he secured the lock to the computer room. "I haven't eaten since this morning."

He followed Gretchen into her kitchen and helped unload the steaming plates of food from their box. A smile crossed his face as he lifted the foil.

"This is just what the doctor ordered," the Thrush chief sighed.

"Comfort food," Gretchen chuckled.

He looked up, smiling. "Aren't you afraid this will make you fat?"

"And what if it does?"

They kept their conversation light during dinner. Erich was surprised that Gretchen accepted his offer. It was part of their game for her to turn him down with some sort of snide remark, so he never anticipated actually dining with her.

"How is that young guard doing? Will he be all right?" Erich asked after downing his first chop.

"He'll be fine," Gretchen replied. "Luckier than his buddy. I don't know what possessed them to pull that stunt."

"I think they were trying to score a few points with me. I assume they thought I'd elevate their status if they got Solo to spill his guts. Unfortunately, they were both quite stupid." Von Koeinghoffer chuckled. "In all honesty, I would have lost all respect for Napoleon Solo had he not tried to escape. He did so admirably, I must say. With all his wounds, I was surprised he made it as far as he did."

"Adrenaline," Gretchen explained. "It gave him a ‘rush' and masked the pain."

Gretchen now had the opportunity to sit back and scrutinized Von Koeinghoffer's appearance, analyzing his handsome looks accentuated by his stately graying hair. In any other situation, she would have been deeply attracted to this man, but her instincts told her that becoming involved with him would be inviting trouble.

Erich caught her gazing at him, and she flushed a little.

 _Oh, shit!_ she thought. _Now he thinks I'm flirting._

"How about some more potatoes?" she asked, alleviating the discomfort of this awkward moment. "They actually taste good tonight. They're usually mushy."

He held out his plate and accepted them graciously.

"So, am I the ogre you always thought me to be?" he asked near the end of dinner.

Gretchen smiled, then laughed out loud, shaking her blonde head.

"No, I'm actually impressed you have a civil side."

"I can even be more than ‘civil', if given the chance," Erich said, smiling.

"'Civil' is just fine for now."

Von Koeinghoffer stood up.

"I enjoyed dining with you immensely." He took her hand in his, kissing it regally. "Unfortunately, duty calls. Any possibility of seeing you later tonight?"

"Why not take it one step at a time," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "I've had a long day and I was planning to sit in a tub of warm bubbles and read tonight."

He smiled. "I could join you...."

Gretchen shook her head. "Don't get your hopes up."

Von Koeinghoffer placed his napkin on the table. "A man can always dream. Thank you for a lovely evening." He nodded, then turned around to leave her apartment.

The guards stood at attention when Erich Von Koeinghoffer, Josef Chalkler,and Franz Kaufmann entered the prison cell. Like before, the trio made immediate preparations for dealing with Napoleon. Moments later, Solo was once again hanging from the overhead chain with his ankles anchored to the floor, his wrists still sore and bloody.

Napoleon tried his damnedest not to reveal his true level of his pain and distress. Sweat had poured from him throughout the day, leaving him dehydrated and weaker than before. His body ached. Above all, he was completely helpless and totally vulnerable.

"How was your dinner?" Napoleon snidely asked once Von Koeinghoffer met him eye-to-eye.

"Actually quite pleasant, thank you," the Thrush chief sneered. He reached his hand out to Kaufmann, who handed him a belt-sized strap. Von Koeinghoffer lashed it across Solo's legs several times. "If I didn't have to be here with you at the moment, I could be spending the rest of my evening in the company of that lovely young woman."

Solo shut his eyes tightly, willing the pain to subside.

"You weren't gone very long, and the only young lady around here is Fraulein Fiedler. You had dinner with **_her_**? That cantankerous cow?"

Napoleon anticipated being struck again and steeled himself against the blows.

"I didn't realize you were sweet on her," Napoleon continued, gasping.

"Enough of the small talk, Herr Solo. You have information we'd like, and I plan to get it from you one way or another. Shall we end these unpleasantness now with your cooperation?"

"As tempting as your invitation sound, I regret I must decline," Napoleon replied dramatically.

Napoleon lost count of the blows he'd received. The three Thrush men were relentless and seemed driven to force him to talk. As they continued, he lost the ability to remain silent, and what started as small, quiet grunts escalated into louder screams. Breathing became difficult, almost impossible with his elongated posture and the intensity of the beating. His chest and diaphragm heaved as he gasped for air and Solo could feel his consciousness begin to fade as his meager breaths would not sustain him.

After twenty fruitless minutes, Von Koeinghoffer motioned for his men to stop and then nodded to Kaufmann, his signal to leave the cell. Solo was silently thankful for the temporary reprieve. He closed his eyes seconds before the Thrush chief grabbed a handful of his sweat-soaked hair.

"Are you ready to cooperate with me?"

Napoleon wanted to respond but was unable to formulate his words. He simply shook his head ‘no'. Von Koeinghoffer released the hold on his hair and his head fell forward on his chest. Solo noticed his clothing had reddened with his own blood and droplets were now forming on the concrete floor beneath him. He then looked up at his bound wrists, bleeding so heavily that his arms were covered in blood.


	3. Chapter 3

Several minutes later, Franz Kaufmann returned with the four remaining new guards. They stopped in their tracks at the sight of Napoleon Solo hanging helplessly by manacled wrists. The disciplinarian bodily pushed them closer to the captive UNCLE agent to get a closer look. Napoleon scanned their skittish faces, noticing that only Karl Schlosser managed to appear unemotional.

Josef Chalkler walked away from the group, deeming it unnecessary for him to be there. He knew his boss' plans, and his participation was not crucial. He took a seat outside the barred wall, took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up.

Erich Von Koeinghoffer turned towards the guards.

"Two of your comrades were stupid enough to attempt taking on this man by themselves," he began. "One is dead and the other is still unconscious. Right now, Napoleon Solo doesn't appear to be much of a threat, but you should never underestimate him or any other captive."

With a nod from his chief, Kaufmann led the guards to the rack which housed a selection whips, straps, rods and bats. Each man was asked to choose one and upon their return to Von Koeinghoffer, needed to justify their selection.

Nowitzski, the first man questioned, had selected a thick strap.

"And why is that?" Von Koeinghoffer asked.

The young man looked at his comrades, hoping to somehow find an answer in their faces. Finally he said: "I guess it would cause a lot of pain."

"You are correct," Von Koeinghoffer stated.

He then turned to Duboff, the next man in line, who held a whip with splayed ends. When questioned, he defended his selection with the theory that it was threatening looking.

"In some situations, this would be a wise choice. But as you can see, Solo has already bled a lot. Using this would only kill him sooner than we'd like. Our objective is to make him talk, not die."

Schlosser was third in line. Karl was holding a slender rod.

"Explain to us why you chose this instrument," Von Koeinghoffer demanded.

"It's a logical choice," Schlosser defended. "It causes a great deal of pain but less damage than some of the others."

"My, my...you seem quite informed on the subject," the chief remarked.

Schlosser responded by smirking ever so slightly.

"And now for you, Herr Fischer. It looks like you've selected the heavy artillery. May I ask why?" Von Koeinghoffer asked the final guard.

"A few good cracks with this," Fischer said while swinging the bat, "and he'll surely talk."

"Perhaps, but you wouldn't want to injure him fatally...at least not at first."

Erich Von Koeinghoffer stepped back, turning once again towards Napoleon Solo.

"Gentlemen, Herr Solo has a vast supply of information for us, but I have had no success in getting him to talk. Let's see if some of your theories will work." He scanned the guards' faces, and decided on Duboff being the first to try.

Solo watched as the nervous young man stepped closer. His heartbeat raced as he anticipated the pain this clumsy post-adolescent would cause. These men were amateurs, capable of doing more unnecessary damage than any professional.

Duboff took a firm hold of the whip's handle and raised his arm to strike. Karl Schlosser was the only guard to step back.

"One moment please!" Von Koeinghoffer interrupted. He turned to the young men. "Are you all crazy?" he bellowed. "Schlosser was the only one with enough common sense to move out of the way."

Everyone then moved a safe distance from Duboff.

The young man's arm once again raised to strike. Napoleon shut his eyes tightly and turned his head away from Duboff, foreseeing the results. Stefan was so close to the agent that after he struck, the leather lash wrapped itself around Solo's legs twice before striking Duboff in the midsection, tearing through his shirt and skin.

Von Koeinghoffer approached the young man and took the whip from his grasp. He then finished unwinding the lash from Solo's body, stood back several feet and thrashed his captive's back with seemingly effortless ease.

The whip was returned to Duboff who now had a second chance to attempt a successful hit. He estimated how far back he should stand and positioned himself before striking a second time. His results were better. Solo's thighs were sliced, not his own. Stefan Duboff raised his arm a second time and struck, gashing the left side of Solo's face, neck and shoulder.

"That. gentlemen, is how it's done. Just be careful of the face, though," Von Koeinghoffer warned. "It bleeds easily, and too much blood loss may be a problem."

Illya's heart was racing, finding it increasingly difficult to watch his partner being tortured. Kuryakin noticed Napoleon's stamina lessening. Tremors followed. Their eyes met for a few seconds; Illya nodded almost imperceivably.

"It's your turn now, Herr Nowitzski," Von Koeinghoffer continued. "Tell us how you plan to proceed."

Thomas Nowitzski thought for a moment before responding.

"Have him take off his shirt," Nowitzski demanded.

"Well, he is incapable of doing that himself," Von Koeinghoffer stated, handing the guard a knife.

The young guard wore an evil smirk as he moved closer to Napoleon, knife in hand to cut away the few parts of the shirt which still clung to his body. He slowly peeled the clothing off Solo's sore back and chest. Guttural groans rose from deep within his throat when what felt like layers of skin were removed along with the fabric.

"Are you ready?" Von Koeinghoffer asked once Nowitzski finished baring Solo's back and chest.

"I'll remove his trousers as well," Nowitzski said confidently. He assessed that they did not need to be cut away; pulling them down around the ankle restraints would be sufficient.

Once again, Stefan Nowitzski made the procedure painfully slow. Fischer and Duboff felt slightly sickened by the appearance of Napoleon's body. Schlosser tried to maintain his composure.

When the guard's head was level with Napoleon's left knee, the UNCLE agent swung himself towards Nowitzski the best he could, pivoting his left knee into the young man's face. Angry and humiliated, Nowitzski finished lowering the trousers quickly and stood back.

"He's not going to make it easy for you," Von Koeinghoffer warned.

Stefan circled Napoleon Solo's bloody, naked body from a safe distance, deciding where to aim the strap. The UNCLE agent's belly had fewer injuries than other areas, so the guard decided to strike there.

Upon impact, Solo's abdomen contracted and his head pitched forward, trying to double over any way possible with the pain. As he took air into his lungs, the struggle within his chest became visible through the tight skin around his ribs. A second blow landed across the front of his knees.

"Good job, Herr Nowitzski. Let's see if we've made a difference so far." Von Koeinghoffer walked over to the UNCLE agent and once again asked if he was ready to talk.

Napoleon glared at him, saying nothing.

"Be realistic, Napoleon. You're not going anywhere, and neither are we. Face it; these young bucks will cause far more damage than I ever would." Von Koeinghoffer paused a moment, expecting a response. None came.

The Thrush chief brusquely turned around and focused his attention on Martin Fischer.

"Herr Fischer, here's your chance to make the uncommunicative Mr. Solo talk."

In an overly enthusiastic attempt to prove himself, Fischer quickly moved close to Napoleon and swung the bat, landing the blow directly in the ribs on his left side. The agent's eyes widened as he felt several bones crack inside his chest, then his teeth bared and eyes squeezed shut when his body truly sensed the pain. Breaths came in short huffs as only small amounts of air could fill Solo's lungs with each inhalation.

A roar filled Solo's skull, but it was not until his head was forcefully yanked upright that he realized the sound he heard was his own screaming. He stopped when he saw Von Koeinghoffer facing him eye to eye. His captor was holding the bat which just broke several ribs.

Von Koeinghoffer motioned for Josef Chalkler to come over and look over the injury.

Chalker roughly felt around the ribs, determining that they were at the least cracked, if not fractured. The probability of internal injury was high as well. He then returned to his chair and cigarettes.

"Have you anything to tell us?" Von Koeinghoffer bellowed in Solo's face.

The agent's eyes closed and head turned away with the sound. This man's words no longer made sense to him and only caused him more anguish.

Von Koeinghoffer paused a moment for a response, and when none came forth, called Schlosser, his final guard.

Karl Schlosser walked close to Solo, circling a few times before standing behind him and placing his hands on the UNCLE agent's hips. The rod he selected was secured between his body and upper arm.

"You seem to be enjoying this, Herr Schlosser," Von Koeinghoffer mused.

"He has a nice body. Firm. Muscular." Schlosser had an venomous smile on his face.

Napoleon looked over his shoulder at him, not expecting to feel hands on his body. He tried to wiggle free, but Schlosser held firm. Several guards chuckled. What felt like a pin prick jabbed into Solo's skin a split second before he saw Schlosser's arm raise to strike him. A loud grunt left his throat before his head fell back and unconsciousness overtook him.

"Damn! Just my luck," Schlosser muttered. He threw down the rod in disgust and roughly lifted Solo's head, trying to wake him up but knowing quite well that wouldn't happen.

"I guess we're finished for tonight, gentlemen," Von Koeinghoffer dramatically announced, "You're all excused for now, except..." He dramatically turned around and pointed to Martin. "...Herr Fischer."

Martin Fischer raised his eyebrows, silently asking ‘Why?'

"You win the prize for doing the most damage, so you are now in charge of guarding him."

Chalkler walked over to Von Koeinghoffer, offering his boss a handkerchief to wipe the blood off his hands.

"Well, Erich, what are you plans for the rest of the evening?" Chalkler asked as Von Koeinghoffer began cleaning himself up. They started walking to the door.

"I'd like to pick up where I left off with Gretchen."

"Fat chance."

"You have no faith in my charm?"

"Are you willing to place a wager?"

"On what? That I can get into her bed tonight?"

"Sounds good to me."

They left the prison cell joking around as if nothing unusual had happened.

Von Koeinghoffer and Chalker walked through the door of the office still cackling like school boys. They stopped momentarily when they saw Gretchen pouring over several reports at her desk.

"I thought you'd be up to your beautiful neck in bubble bath by now," Von Koeinghoffer smiled, mocking surprise to see her in the office.

"Everyone was out of the office," she snapped. "Someone had to stay here."

The Thrush chief looked at Chalkler and burst out laughing.

"Call my driver and have him bring the car around the front," Vo Koeinghoffer laughed.

"Another early evening?" Chalkler chuckled, dialing the phone to alert his boss' driver.

"One never knows."

After the call was completed, Josef turned towards a clueless Gretchen.

"Well, we found out something new tonight, Fraulein Fiedler," Chalkler mused.

"You remember Karl Schlosser?"

She immediately looked up, expecting to hear that his cover had been blown. Despite their jovial repartee, she knew someone was badly injured because of the blood stains on their clothes.

"Ja, I remember him. He helped me clean up the exam room two nights ago."

"Well," Chalkler continued, "he's taken a liking to Solo's body. He couldn't keep his hands off if."

Gretchen shook her head, relieved with this recent epiphany.

"From what I've heard, Herr Solo has a wonderful body," she mused.

Josef moved to her side and gently held her elbow, suggesting she stand up.

"By all means, go have a look for yourself," he said, escorting her to the door. "He's still hanging out in the cooler."

"You may have to fight off Schlosser to get to him," Von Koeinghoffer added, laughing so hard his sides began to hurt. "I've got to sit down."

The driver parked Von Koeinghoffer's to the left of the office as Gretchen was walking to the prison cell. He got out of the vehicle and removed his hat, tossing it on the front seat.

"Any idea how long he'll be?" the driver asked.

"Not a clue. Wait in the office. You'll be more comfortable in the air conditioning."  
  
Illya crouched outside the prison door, unseen in the darkness. He didn't expect anyone returning so quickly, and drew his gun when he heard footsteps coming nearer. Relief washed over him when he saw Gretchen.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"I've got to get Napoleon out of here. They've practically killed him."

"You're in luck, Illya. Von Koeinghoffer's driver just left the car by the office with the keys in the ignition."

"Good. Fischer is guarding him at the moment. I'll subdue him and grab Napoleon."

Kuryakin opened the outer door silently, giving him enough room to look inside, aim his gun and shoot off a sleep dart. The unsuspecting guard crumpled to the ground, never knowing what hit him. Illya then slid through the door, followed by Gretchen.

Her face paled when she saw Napoleon's condition. The only pulse Gretchen could find was dangerously slow and weak; the breathing was so shallow, detection was difficult. She pressed her fingers over his ribcage, gently pressing the bloody injured area to see how badly it was damaged.

"I don't think they're broken. They spring back too easily," she said as she moved closer to his head. Her fingers lifted an eyelid, revealing a pupil with very little response to light.

"What finally knocked him out?" Gretchen asked.

Kuryakin held up the shell of a tiny sleep dart.

Illya impatiently waited the few seconds until she was finished before assisting his partner. While Solo was still suspended from the chain, Kuryakin brought the trousers back up the motionless body. Finally, he unholstered his gun and shot a well-aimed bullet through a link in the ankle chains. The handcuffs were next, and another well-placed bullet freed Napoleon's wrists, causing the inert body to collapse on Illya's shoulders.

"We'd better hurry. I think Erich wants to leave shortly," Gretchen warned.

Illya looked up, surprised by her remark.

"That's not what he thought." Illya hoisted his partner to a more comfortable position.

"What did he think was going to happen?" she asked, assisting Illya.

Illya grunted slightly under Napoleon's weight as he carried his friend to the door.

"He made a bet with Chalkler that he could get you in the sack tonight."

Gretchen opened the door slightly, looking outside to see if they were alone.

Luckily, not a soul was in sight. She left first, then shut out the lights before Illya exited with Napoleon. Then, she ducked low and ran ahead to Von Koeinghoffer's car, opening the back door seconds before Illya hurried over with Solo. They maneuvered the injured man in the back seat and shut the door. Illya jumped into the driver's seat. Gretchen handed him a pen communicator.

"I'll call Marta and let her know you're on the way. I assume they'll send a helicopter. Give me a few minutes before you start the car. Oh...and I'll do my best to see you have a bit of a head start." She winked at Illya and quietly closed the door.

"So, what did you think, Fraulein Fiedler?" Chalkler chided as she returned to the office.

"You were right," she chuckled. "He is well endowed. All the rumors were correct. Martin Fischer doesn't seem too happy with his assignment, though."

She looked around. Von Koeinghoffer and Chalkler had washed up and changed clothing in her absence. The driver took her advice and made himself at home, sitting around Chalkler's desk, having a beer and munching one whatever junk food Chalkler could scrounge from his apartment.

"Anybody got the time?" Gretchen asked.

Von Koeinghoffer looked at his watch.

"Any time you're ready..." He looked at Gretchen with his eyebrows raised, hoping she would catch his hint. She rolled her eyes. "But it's really 10:50."

"Oh, shit," she muttered.

Ignoring Von Koeinghoffer's remarks, she sat down at her desk and quickly dialed a number on the telephone.

"Hi, Marta?" she started, speaking quietly into the mouthpiece, appearing to want a private conversation, but still allowing herself to be heard. "I hope I'm not calling too late...oh, good...Ja, I'm still getting carried away at work...About your dinner invitation..."

The conversation lasted all of three minutes, in which time she conveyed a coded message to her friend that Kuryakin and a wounded Solo were leaving and in need of a helicopter airlift. Once the phone call began, the three men went back to their bantering, unaware that she was contacting UNCLE right under their noses.

Illya started the engine and slowly drove the car to the secured entrance. As he neared, he placed the driver's cap on his head and lowered the window slightly, nodding to the guard on duty. Since nothing was out of the ordinary, the guard opened the gate and waved them through. As the gate started the close, Kuryakin gunned the engine and sped down the road.

Kuryakin fumbled with Gretchen's communicator while trying to keep control of the car doing 75 mph on dark, winding, narrow roads.

"Open Channel D! Urgent!"

The woman in UNCLE's communications office was expecting his call.

"Gretchen notified us, and a helicopter will meet you 3 miles from the ‘back door'."

Illya understood her message. The ‘back door' was a secretive entrance to one of UNCLE's satellite offices, the Pützen Hospital. This entrance could only be reached by foot, and was situated two miles from the prison compound's front door. To bring Napoleon Solo to safety via the 'back door' was out of the question. Three miles beyond was a small clearing off the side of the road, adequate to provide a helicopter rescue.

The phone Chalkler's on desk rang. He was in the middle of a sentence with Von Koeinghoffer when he picked it up. A confused look came over his face.

"That's impossible. He's right here."

Sensing something was wrong, Von Koeinghoffer stood up.

Chalkler hung up the phone.

"The guard at the front gate asked to relay a message to you the next time we meet. Your left tail light is out."

The two men and Gretchen immediately rushed through the door and into the prison cell. Martin Fischer was sprawled out on the concrete floor. Chalkler ran over to Fischer and pulled the remains of the sleep dart out of his neck and held it up for Von Koeinghoffer to see.

"How the hell did he escape this time?" Chalkler asked, looking around the room. He turned to Gretchen. "Did you see anyone unusual?"

"No, just Fischer. He was on his feet when I left," she shrugged.

"Get us a car!" Von Koeinghoffer growled.  
  
Minutes later Chalkler and Von Koeinghoffer had a dozen guards armed and in pursuit of Napoleon Solo. The road ahead was empty; not another vehicle was within sight.

As they neared the clearing, the glow created by the helicopter's lights alerted them to Solo's whereabouts. They shut off their headlights as they neared the rendezvous site and proceeded on foot, guns drawn.

Two UNCLE medics and Kuryakin were almost finished fastening the security belts around Napoleon's rescue board. Four others, watching for intruders with infrared binoculars, signaled that Thrush was closing in on foot. Immediately, the helicopter pilot shut off the ground lights. Before he motioned for the chopper crew to lift him on board, Illya tucked Gretchen's communicator in his partner's waistband.

The Thrush crew opened fire, peppering the helicopter and anyone around it with bullets. Silently, the UNCLE agents were making their escape. The agents on the helicoptor did not return the gunfire, hoping to keep their positions undisclosed.

A rope ladder was suspended from the helicopter allowing the agents to climb aboard while the rescue board was being raised. The last UNCLE agent before Illya grabbed hold of the ladder as it was almost out of reach, giving Illya the option of either grabbing on to his legs and being raised to safety, possibly jeopardizing both their lives, or staying below and letting the others make it to safety. He opted for the second, since he was in no real danger as Karl Schlosser. The helicopter ascended vertically and then flew off into the night.

Illya ran around the flanks of Thrush guards, rejoining them with several self-inflicted branch wounds to his face and neck. In the turmoil of Solo's escape, no one missed his presence, nor did they see his return. The perfect cover-up.  
  
Von Koeinghoffer alerted his comrades at Thrush about Napoleon Solo's escape, and dispatched several undercover agents in and around the Pützen Hospital. By the time they arrived and had taken their positions, the helicopter had already landed safely at an alternative entrance, and Solo was on his way to medical help.

* * * * *

Dr. Reuben Abramson was on the helicopter to stabilize Napoleon before they even reached the hospital. The landing pad was on the roof of a posh mid-rise apartment building, where no one would think twice about seeing a helicopter set down. There were several doors leading down into the building, but one always remained locked as one of UNCLE's alternate entrances.

Once through the door, a wide foyer led to an elevator. Two emergency room physicians met Dr. Abramson and Napoleon as they landed, placing Solo on a gurney and rolling it through the door, to the elevator.

The elevator shaft carried them three stories below street level to a subterranean corridor. They trotted with the gurney the block and a half length to the hospital's underground portal, and brought Solo safely into the building undetected.

UNCLE had designed a separate emergency room area for their use. Although Dr. Reuben Abramson and the select UNCLE staff practiced throughout the entire hospital, they secretly tended to the agents when necessary.

The gurney was rolled down a secured corridor alongside the regular emergency room. Other secured entrances, including the ‘back door' linked with the hospital at this juncture. Undetectable observation windows throughout the hallway gave the UNCLE agents the distinct advantage of spying on whoever was out there. Dr. Abramson recognized a few unsavory Thrush characters in their midst.  
  
Napoleon was lifted on to an examining table and the remainder of his shredded trousers was removed. Gretchen's communicator dropped to the floor. Smiling, one of Dr. Abramson's assistants picked it up and tucked it into the doctor's breast pocket.

After removing dried blood and dirt, the medical staff spent the following nine hours mending the battered body. Several times during the operation, Solo would start drifting back into consciousness, practically resisting the drug-induced sleep. Each time, the anesthesia was increased to complete the procedure.

**Friday, 18 July**  
  
The pre-dawn escape left a pallor in its wake. The Thrush entourage returned to the prison tired and empty-handed. Von Koeinghoffer and Chalker were livid, trying to find out what went wrong ...how did Napoleon Solo, suspended from the ceiling, unconscious, find his way out of a secured facility and to safety?

Gretchen was still at her desk when they returned.

"Well, did you find Solo?" she asked.

Von Koeinghoffer grunted and Chalkler simply glowered at her.

"I guess that means ‘no'," she sighed.

Kaufmann brought the bloodied Karl Schlosser to the medical office when they made it back to the prison compound.

"And what happened to him?" Gretchen asked, surprised to see Illya at all.

"He mumbled something about one of the senior guards letting a branch fling back at him," Kaufmann grunted, roughly pushing Schlosser ahead of him to the medical office.

"Gretchen, my dear, this one's yours." Chalkler smiled weakly, motioning to Schlosser. "I took care of last night's medical dilemma, now it's your turn."

"But, I..." she began to protest.

Von Koeinghoffer moved closer to her, placing a hand gently on her mouth to quiet her, then held one finger to his own lips.

"Just do it."

He turned around and followed Chalker into the apartment.  
  
Illya was already sitting on the examining table with his shirt opened when Gretchen came in. Franz Kaufmann was standing beside him, impatient.

"So you had a battle with a tree?" she started.

"The tree won," Schlosser flatly answered, exhausted.

"Do you need me to help you?" Kaufmann asked.

"Only if you have a burning desire to stay, Herr Kaufmann," Gretchen replied. "This doesn't look too bad. It should only take a few minutes."

She filled a small metal basin with warm, sudsy water.

"Then I will bid you both farewell and I'm off to bed," he said, waving his hand as he walked out of the door, closing it behind him.

Gretchen immediately scanned the room for surveillance devices. None were present.

"Well, this is a surprise," she said as she began wiping the blood off his face and neck with soapy water. "Good ruse...bloodying yourself to disguise Solo's."

"Spy 101 tactics."

Illya winced as Gretchen dabbed a tender spot.

"Sorry. Well, your cuts are less significant than I initially thought." She continued cleaning the wounded areas. "I assume the rescue went well."

"Completely as planned, except for Von Koeinghoffer and company showing up earlier than expected. Surely you could have kept him occupied."

Gretchen reached for a bottle of antiseptic and opened the cap.

"After you left the gate, the guard called and informed us that Von Koeinghoffer's tail light was out," she chuckled. "Didn't they teach you to check out your equipment before using it?"

"That's in ‘Spy 102'. I must have been absent that day," Illya sighed, closing his eyes in exhaustion.

The wounds stung again as Gretchen dabbed on the antiseptic. Kuryakin's eyelids squeezed tightly shut with the discomfort.

"I'm almost finished," she said quietly, placing her hand on his shoulder.

His eyes opened, not expecting her touch. She removed her hand and continued the procedure, finishing up within minutes as she promised.

Napoleon's surgery lasted until well after 2 o'clock in the afternoon. The efforts of the surgical team were not in vain. Although Solo's body looked like a patchwork quilt of red and purple hues at the moment, they determined that once he healed, scarring would be minimal. He awoke in the recovery room, groggy and disoriented but nevertheless, alive.

**Wednesday, 23 July**  
  
"Thursday night is great! Where would you like me to meet you?... How about the front steps?...7 o'clock? You got a date, Marta! See you then."

Gretchen hung up the telephone receiver after a lengthy conversation with Marta Holtzman. It was Wednesday, mid-morning, and Josef Chalkler found her giggly half-hour girl-talk with the phantom Marta annoying.

"So just who is this Marta?" he finally asked.

"Oh, come on, Josef. I've mentioned her before. She and I met while at the University. She quit nursing school and went on to become a plastic surgeon."

"She's from around here?"

"Not originally. We haven't seen very much of each other lately."

"Well, you sure as hell talk a lot on the phone."

"Tomorrow we'll make up for lost time. I'm meeting her for dinner and then spending the night at her apartment. That way, we can catch up with each others lives in person."

"You'll be back Friday morning?"

Her mood suddenly darkened. "Am I ever late?"

That was his clue to back off.

The pace at the prison had fallen into a lull. Illya was bored beyond distraction, carrying on his daily duties as a new guard without any verve whatsoever. He awoke, ate, worked, ate, worked, ate, slept. Period. There was little to actually do. The prisoners were complacent, not that they were ever a real threat. Chalkler and Kaufmann went about their duties with timed precision, barely wavering from their schedules. Gretchen pretended to be busy. Von Koeinghoffer had gone off to conduct his Thrush duties elsewhere around the globe.

To top it off, the computer was still unassembled. Opened boxes of parts lay in wait for the main components which still have not arrived. No sense destroying something which really isn't there.

Illya looked at his reflection in the mirror after his morning shower. His hair was lightening. He ran his fingers through his paler locks, seeing if all the temporary dye was washing out. In their original plan, he was to be long gone by now...but here it was, almost a week and a half later. Hopefully, no one would notice.

**Thursday, 24 July**  
  
Thursday evening couldn't come quickly enough for Gretchen. By 6:30 she was out of the office and in her car, bags packed for an evening at Marta's.

They met on the front steps of the hospital, hugging and shrieking like adolescents. A cool summer evening's breeze swept around them, a welcomed relief from the rising July temperatures.

Marta was still in her lab coat when they met. Her red hair was now below the shoulders, the longest Gretchen had seen it in quite a while. The low rays of the sun coupled with the random gusts of wind caused her hair to cast subtle beams of light.

"Are they still watching?" Gretchen whispered, animatedly gesturing at how well her friend looked.

"Yes," Marta replied quietly.

"What have you been doing to yourself lately? You look great!" Gretchen remarked, loud enough for anyone within earshot.

"Doesn't look like life's been treating you too badly." Marta returned, equally as loud. "Two of them are in cars across the street with cameras, and two more are in the lobby," she whispered.

"Damn. Chalkler just won't quit, will he?" Her gesticulations continued.

Marta looked at her watch. "I have just a few things to finish up before we leave. Why not come with me?"

Gretchen picked up her overnight bag and followed Marta into the hospital.

"It's been a long day," Marta continued for whoever cared to listen. "but I can't leave without finishing my last report." She put her arm around Gretchen. "Can you pick out the Thrushies?" she whispered as they walked through the lobby.

They maintained their generic chatter until they entered her office and closed the door. Gretchen automatically checked for listening devices. The office was clean.

"Good to see you again, Marta," she smiled, plopping into a comfy chair across from her friend's desk. "What's the emergency?"

Marta looked up. "No emergency, Gretchen. Alexander Waverly is dropping by on his way to Berlin, and he wanted to talk with you in person."

"Good. I was hoping it didn't have to do with Napoleon. How is he doing?"

"Actually, relatively well... considering. He arrived the crack of dawn on Friday and we spent most of the day patching him up. Poor guy. He looked horrible. You know how vain he is."

"Just the rumors."

"Well, at the moment, he's a little...shall we say ‘upset' over his appearance. It took me many hours to preserve that lovely body of his. It will be a few weeks until he can really appreciate what I've done."

Gretchen chuckled. "Despite his outward appearances, how is he doing?"

"Oh that...I guess he's doing better every day. His strength is returning, I assume he's eating and sleeping, but I do know he's complaining. You know what those two are like. He even seems a little depressed. He's not a happy camper."

"Do you have a lot of paperwork?" Gretchen asked.

"Oh...about twenty minutes' worth."

"I'll be back. I'd like to see how the camper is doing."

Napoleon was tucked under a blanket in a large, cushiony chair with his feet propped up on the bed when Gretchen came in. His eyes were shut, and she could determine from his breathing pattern that he had been dozing for a while. The usually tanned skin was pale, and his face wore the stubble of six days' growth. He looked thinner and smaller in stature than a week before.

She silently picked up the chart hanging on the foot of the bed and read its contents. Her eyebrows raised at several of the doctors' comments, and when she was done, silently returned it. Gretchen debated whether or not to wake him. She turned to leave, deciding it was better to let him sleep.

"Aren't you at least going to say ‘Hello'?" a sleepy voice asked.

Gretchen turned around, smiling. She walked over and kissed him on the forehead.

"You look much better than the last time I saw you," she said, sitting on the bed next to him. "Have they been taking good care of you?"

"Too good, considering what a pain the ass I've been." He paused, then finally asked: "How's Illya?"

"Still playing the guard." She paused a moment and smiled. "Poor man is bored out of his mind. You did provide some well-needed excitement, I must say."

"I do my best," he responded. Napoleon sighed, relieved to hear is partner was safe. "And how are you, Fraulein Gretchen?" Solo tried to smile one of his big, charming smiles.

"Oh, just wonderful," she said flatly. "Marta said that she gave you the 5-Star treatment. May I take a look?"

Napoleon obligingly sat forward. Gretchen removed the blanket from around his shoulders and unbuttoned the top of his pajamas. She slipped the fabric off him and untaped one of the bandages on his back. The agent flinched at her touch.

"Are you in pain?" she asked.

"Only when I move. It's slightly more than the proverbial ‘minor discomfort'."

"Do you need something for it?"

"Not at the moment. I've been doped up for days. I'm tired of feeling nothing."

"Just let me know if I'm hurting you too much." She looked directly into his brown eyes. "Understand?"

Solo placed his hand on hers. "I know you would never hurt me," he said with a straight face.

A boisterous laugh erupted from Gretchen.

"You must be feeling better, Herr Solo. You're flirting with me!"

"Am I that transparent?"

"Yes."

"I must be losing my touch," he sighed dramatically.

"I'll be gentle," she cooed in his ear, deftly removing the remains of the bandage.

The skin was still bruised and discolored, but a very small, healthy looking scar replaced the deep gash of several days ago. She raised her eyebrows and nodded in approval before retaping the bandage.

"They're going to heal just fine," Gretchen assured him.

Solo sat back in the chair and closed his eyes.

"Let me take a look at your face, Napoleon," she said inching closer.

Gretchen's hand gently held his chin, turning his left cheek towards her.

"I'm dying to shave, but Dr. Abramson requested I leave the stubble alone."

"You'd only be allowed to shave half your face and leave the scar alone to heal. That would look kind of strange, wouldn't you say?" She sat back a bit. "Actually, you look distinguished in a beard."

"As opposed to....?"

"Uh...your handsome, boyish looks?" Her face reddened.

"Are you two decent?" came a voice from the hallway.

Marta walked in minus the lab coat.

"Those clowns following you don't know what the hell happened," the redhead laughed. "We're not outside the building, we're not inside the building."

"You're being followed?" Napoleon asked.

Gretchen smiled. "I think Chalkler wants to see just who this elusive Marta really is." She turned towards Marta. "You don't think we overacted for the cameraman, do you?"

"Eh...maybe just a bit. Listen, I'm starving. Have either of you eaten yet?"

Gretchen shook her head.

"Napoleon?"

"Technically, yes."

"I'll assume that means you merely picked at the rubbery chicken and overcooked peas."

Napoleon smiled. "You're good."

"Did you curl up your nose at the green jello?"

"You're very good."

Dr. Marta Holtzman reached into her oversized purse and withdrew several menus from local take-out restaurants. Napoleon opened his mouth to comment.

"Yes, Herr Solo, we have these here as well. What will it be?"


	4. Chapter 4

A brown shopping bag arrived half an hour later via Dr. Holtzman's associate. One by one, she and Gretchen unearthed each fragrant, succulent item, taking delight in their exotic aromas. Chinese take-out.

Napoleon was amused at their attention to the meal spread before them. Women he met usually dealt with meals on a more detached level.

"Do you ladies always get this excited over food?" he finally asked.

Marta turned towards him. "Yes," she answered matter-of-factly. Then she smiled. "Among other things."

Plates, chopsticks, and the delectable tidbits were passed around.

Gretchen's eyes opened wide in response to the pungent eggplant with garlic sauce. She shot a glance towards Napoleon.

"Should you be eating this?" Gretchen asked, sucking in air to cool her palate. "Won't this melt your stitches or something?"

Napoleon shrugged. "I don't know." He nodded towards Marta. "She's my doctor...ask her."

"I doubt it," Marta mused. "The worst he'll get is heartburn. Hmmm, with those cracked ribs, that could be a problem."

"I'll take that risk," Napoleon said.

They spent a leisurely hour and a half finishing their dinner. Napoleon's pain became a secondary concern to his enjoyment. He was in the company of two extremely beautiful women, eating the best meal he'd had in almost two weeks. By the time they broke open their fortune cookies, his mood had elevated tenfold.

Gretchen and Marta decided to stay at UNCLE for the rest of the night. They both knew that Thrush would be on alert for either one of them leaving, and although Marta's car was in a secured, undetectable location, neither wanted to risk being followed. It really would not have mattered where they stayed, since they planned to spend their time together catching up on each others' lives, not simply conversing through cryptic telephone calls.

Alexander Waverly arrived moments before 1 am. His sole reason for conferring with Gretchen was to ascertain Illya Kuryakin's status at the prison. She assured him that Illya portrayal of a Thrush guard was quite believable and his situation was secure. So far.

* * * * *

Dr. Abramson checked on Napoleon before his marathon two-and-a-half-consecutive-shifts ended. The doctor looked exhausted. Dark circles under the eyes made his slender face appear more gaunt than usual. But as always, he was professional.

As he entered, he sniffed, catching the aroma of Chinese food which still permeated the air. The red and white Chinese food containers caught his attention as he passed the trash can.

"It looks like we should be trading places," Napoleon mused with a bit of concern.

"That actually sounds inviting, Herr Solo. I'm going home as soon as we're finished. How are you feeling?"

"Great."

"You do look better than I've seen you lately. The healing qualities of Chinese food?" The perennially serious doctor cracked a smile.

"And my dinner guests. They were lovely."

After his vital signs suggested that Napoleon was well on his way to recovery, Dr. Abramson felt secure in bidding him a good night and heading home.  
  
One of Napoleon's nurses stopped in shortly after the doctor left, asking if he needed something for his pain before going to sleep. Solo declined, but after much persistence, he agreed to take an oral dose of ibuprofen just to appease her.

* * * * *

At first, his level of discomfort was bearable, but as the night wore on, he regretted not requesting something stronger. He intermittently dozed and woke, each time finding it harder to fall back to sleep.

Locating a comfortable spot was the major problem. His back was still sore, and the cracked ribs prevented him from changing positions comfortably. Dr. Abramson cautioned him against laying on his stomach to avoid further damage to the ribs. Trying to sleep on his right side without twisting his torso became impossible. He ended up lying on his back, the lesser of the evils.

At some point in the middle of the night, Napoleon awoke in a cold sweat. His level of tolerance had peaked and the thought of a strong analgesic made sense. Solo tried reaching for the call button, but it was beyond his grasp. He tried maneuvering himself to extend his range, but he was still inches short of his target.

"Let me get that for you," a familiar voice offered.

Napoleon looked up, squinting at the barely visible figure standing by his bed.

"Mr. Waverly," he said, finally recognizing the dim silhouette. "...when did you get here?"

The UNCLE chief pushed the call button and waited for someone to respond.

"Mr. Solo could use a little help," he said in fluent German.

He pulled the chain suspended above Solo's bed, turning on a soft light. Napoleon's shaded his eyes at its brightness, then shifted his weight trying to make himself more comfortable. Mr. Waverly extended his arm, and nodded for Solo to grasp it, hoping his senior agent could pull himself into a less painful position.

After a few attempts, Napoleon rested on his right side. Mr. Waverly handed him a large bed pillow from the armchair to tuck under his chest, helping support some of the weight.

"I've had my share of broken ribs," the UNCLE chief said.

The nurse finally came to Solo's assistance.

"Good lord, woman. What took you so long?" Mr. Waverly admonished.

"Someone said that Mr. Solo needed assistance," she defended. "That's a far cry from 'dire emergency'." She turned to Napoleon. "What seems to be the problem, Herr Solo?"

Napoleon made his request for the pain killer, and after obliging him, the nurse left as abruptly as she came.

"Not exactly the warm and friendly type, is she?" Napoleon remarked as she walked out the door.

"Mr. Solo, I have some good news. We abducted Erich Von Koeinghoffer yesterday evening."

**One day earlier:**   
**Wednesday, 23 July**

Erich Von Koeinghoffer had left his previous destination en route to Pützen.

He exited the airport with his entourage and piled into his waiting car. As he was remarking about the superb job his officers had done cleaning up Napoleon Solo's blood, the driver wordlessly raised the window between himself and his passengers, locked the doors, and released a knockout gas. From the rear view mirror, the driver could see that the unhappy crew in the back was trying to escape, and when that proved futile, pulled their guns and tried shooting through the partition. That proved futile as well, and within a very short time, the entire group was unconscious.

The driver smiled and pulled his communicator pen from his jacket pocket.

"Open Channel D," he requested. When his transmission made its connection, he informed Mr. Waverly that the birds were caged and sound asleep.

* * * * *

No one missed the Thrush official. He was known for impromptu itinerary changes and not informing others of his whereabouts. When he failed to show up anywhere at all, no concern was voiced.

The Thrush entourage was initially taken to UNCLE's Berlin office. Von Koeinghoffer was isolated from his guards, who were later moved to different locations. UNCLE wanted to ensure that the Thrush chief had no communication with any of his men. He was sedated, scanned and relieved of extraneous security and defensive devices, and left in solitary cell, dressed in simple white cotton trousers with an elastic waistband, and a T-shirt. No pockets, no belts.

The cell was visible from all four sides, allowing constant monitoring. His furnishings were minimal, but adequate and secure. A bed and chair on one side, and the toilet and sink behind frosted Plexiglas. The entire cell was impervious to destruction.

Alexander Waverly paid him a visit on Friday morning after leaving Pützen.

Erich Von Koeinghoffer looked relaxed, lounging on the bed with his arms behind his head as the UNCLE chief entered the cell.

Respectfully, Von Koeinghoffer began to get up.

"No need to," Mr. Waverly said in German. "I assume you're being treated well."

"Quite well, Alexander. Much better than we treat your people, I'm not ashamed to say." Von Koeinghoffer smirked slightly. "And what exactly do you expect to accomplish by detaining me? This wouldn't be in retaliation for your senior agent, would it?"

"We're not that petty. No, we have other reasons for detaining you." Mr. Waverly smiled. "Actually, you're quite a prize."

"How is Mr. Solo fairing these days? I assume you have him tucked away somewhere safe."

"He's doing very well. I'll tell Mr. Solo you asked next time I see him."

"I'm curious. How did he escape? We thrashed him within an inch of his life and ‘Poof'...a moment later he's gone."

Mr. Waverly maintained his expressionless demeanor.

"I'm not at liberty to say, Erich. You understand, of course."

"And how exactly did you find me?"

"I personally have been following your career in Thrush since your Black Market days. Each time you literally stabbed one of your superiors in the back, I knew about it. Your whereabouts are simply not that hard to track. We just waited until this opportune moment to abduct you." Mr. Waverly stood up to leave. "And we promise to be more humane than your associates are. Good morning, Erich."

* * * * *

Dr. Marta Holtzman drove her red sports car to the front steps of the hospital at 7:30 in the morning, dropping off Gretchen after several long, chatty good-byes. Both women kept their attention focused on the Thrush agents still stationed around the hospital's exterior, confused at their arrival. None of them saw the ladies leave the premises at any point the following night, and yet, they were returning.

Gretchen closed the passenger door and crossed the street to her own car. After throwing her overnight bag on to the back seat, she started the engine and returned to the prison by 8 am, as promised.

"Did you have a pleasant evening?" Josef Chalkler cordially asked when she walked in.

"We always do," Gretchen said, smiling.

"Oh, last night Thrush Central called. The remainder of the computer parts are being shipped today, and we should have them by tomorrow."

"It's about time we get that thing up and running. Any word from Von Koeinghoffer?"

"None at all. Unfortunately, when he doesn't want to be contacted, he makes himself invisible."

**Saturday, 26 July**  
  
The truck containing the computer parts never arrived. As fate would have it, the engine caught overheated outside Munich, starting a fire which spread throughout the vehicle and destroying its entire contents. When Illya Kuryakin became aware of this set back, he shook his head and sighed.

 _At this pace,_ he thought, _I'll probably collect my pension from Thrush._

Napoleon Solo's recovery had accelerated at remarkable speed. His meeting with Mr. Waverly had been shrouded in complete secrecy, and recuperation for his next assignment was top priority. The weight and strength lost during his captivity was returning.

Every evening, Dr. Holtzman would check on Solo's progress. Once the bandages were removed and the wounds were no longer in danger of re-opening or infection, she recommended physical therapy followed by the whirlpool to stimulate the blood's flow to the newly healed skin. Dr. Holtzman also brought take-out menus with her. Each night, they decided on the bill of fare du jour and dined together.

He knew he was feeling better when he grew impatient with the invasive hospital routine. The entire medical team tending to him sensed it immediately. Napoleon was in purgatory...not healthy enough to leave, but too hearty to be complacent. He resigned himself to being the hospital's guest until Mr. Waverly ordered him otherwise.

Physical Therapy was grueling. At first, the sessions were moderate. Each meeting with personal physical therapist was concluded with a relaxing dip in the whirlpool and followed by a massage. As the days progressed, the length and intensity of his sessions were increased. Napoleon was frustrated by the loss of strength and endurance borne of two days at the mercy of Thrush. Within a week, though, the intensive program proved successful and Solo was working his way back to top form.

**One week later:**  
 **2 August**  
  
"Dinner together for almost a week and half," Marta laughed, taking her last bite of filet mignon. "This almost constitutes a long-term relationship for me. Hmmm, does it count if my dinner partner happens to be a captive audience?"

Napoleon Solo sipped the smuggled Merlot.

"I'll have to check to rule book on that one," Solo responded, smiling. "I must admit, I've enjoyed our evenings together. You, my dear," he said, raising his glass in her honor, "are a true miracle worker."

Marta stood up, moving closer to him.

"That reminds me," she chuckled. "I guess I need to see how your wounds are doing."

As she opened his shirt, a smile stretched across her face and she nodded in satisfaction. Her fingers then separated the hairs of his newly grown beard, checking the facial wound's progress.

"This has to be my best work yet. In a few days, you should be able to shave again." She patted the bed, motioning for Solo to prop up his legs. She rolled up the legs of his pajamas to check those wounds. "All those correspondence courses really paid off," she mused. "And how is physical therapy going?"

Napoleon dramatically winced. "My physical therapist is practically a barbarian. Where on earth did you find him?"

"I think his job application indicated he's a direct descendant of Atilla the Hun."

"I can believe it."

"Well, you look great. Your skin is healthy looking and your scars should practically disappear within a few weeks. That's why I prescribed the whirlpool."

"I missed my daily dip this afternoon."

"Oh?"

"Scheduling error, or something."

"That's unfortunate. It's been highly beneficial for you." Dr. Holtzman checked her watch. "Tell you what...I have a few things to finish, but I should be done in about an hour. I doubt the room is in use at this time of night, so maybe we can still squeeze it in."  
  
An hour later Marta returned, toting a wheelchair. She wore surgical scrubs instead of her dress and labcoat.

"Hop on!" she chirped.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking," Solo said, eyeing the chair.

"I know you are, but this will raise less eyebrows. The whirlpool is generally off limits after hours, unless deemed necessary." She patted the chair. "This makes it look official."  
  
Once inside the hydrotherapy area, Napoleon abandoned the wheelchair. Marta filled the whirlpool with hot water, checking for the right temperature.

"It's all yours," she said, satisfied the water was ready.

Solo smiled, expecting Marta to leave or at least turn around while he disrobed.

Sensing his discomfort, she excused herself momentarily and left the room. When she returned, Napoleon was neck-deep in the warm, swirling water, eyes closed with the pleasurable sensations.

"I never considered you the shy type," she mused, squatting down next to him.

His eyes opened.

"It's one facet of my personality people rarely see," he responded, smiling.

Marta touched his shoulder. "I feel truly honored."

Perhaps it was the look on her face, or the whirlpool's motion, or the touch that remained a fraction of a second too long, but for the first time in weeks, Napoleon felt a stirring in his groin. He slid to the side of the tub.

"Care to join me?"

She paused, thinking.

"I would love to, but I think there's something in the rule book about doctor-patient relationships."

"I won't tell."

She stood up and removed her scrubs, revealing an exquisite body unencumbered by underwear. Napoleon never took his eyes off her, fascinated by the fluidity of every movement. Her clothing lay where they landed.

"Are you sure you're up..." she looked into the water at the direct proximity of his penis, then back into his eyes, "...for this?"

Solo smiled and nodded.

Marta grasped the sides of the whirlpool as one long leg at a time sank into the swirling water. She slipped her hips into the water, sitting to the right of Napoleon. It was close, but extremely cozy. Solo's arm cushioned her shoulders as she settled in, pulling her closer. His eyes closed as the feeling of her naked skin sent goosebumps throughout his body.

They snuggled in the warm water in silence, absorbing the delicious sensations of their being together.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" Marta asked.

"Not at all. I haven't felt this good in weeks," Napoleon sighed, eyes still closed.

Marta shifted slightly, turning towards him and placing her hand on his chest. In response, Napoleon twisted to meet her lips, but stopped abruptly when a dull pain reminded him that his ribs had not yet healed.

"On second thought, maybe this wasn't such a..." he began.

A slender finger rose to his lips, suggesting he stop talking.

"Since when do you give up so easily," Marta asked as she turned herself in the tub, straddling Napoleon's body between her thighs.

She leaned forward kissing him on the mouth. Napoleon's hands moved along slender body, caressing her soft water-slicked skin gently and seductively. Marta moaned as his touch awakened her senses. She began stroking him, wanting to feel every inch of his body.

It seemed almost against his nature to let his partner take the proverbial reins while making love, but Napoleon realized that allowing someone else the opportunity to pleasure him was a remarkable sensation. He abandoned the idea of being in control this time, and succumbed to Marta's. His head rested on the rim of the tub and his eyes closed, absorbing the sensations as Marta stroked and massaged him underwater. She lingered on his nipples, feeling him shudder beneath her as the gentle tremors went through his body. All the while, she could feel his penis growing, expanding and throbbing with his arousal.

Gentle hands wrapped around his cock, playing and teasing as it increased even more. Without a word, Marta moved her hips above his penis and slowly, very slowly, lowered herself, softly moaning at the sheer size of him inside her.

Napoleon gasped, nearing an orgasm sooner than he was accustomed. He fully expected her to starting moving, enveloping the walls of her warm, moist vagina erotically around his engorged penis. Instead, she kept her hips still, allowing his cock to remain inside her as she continued kissing and caressing him. The subtle movements of her body brought more shockwaves through his. He was so near orgasm, yet Marta was playing with him, delaying the final surge of their lovemaking for the right moment. His chest expanded and contracted with each breath, moans escaping his lips upon exhaling.

Napoleon took her head in his hands, bringing her close to him. Their lips locked in a deep, passionate kiss. He could feel Marta's internal contractions, nearing a climax, so he held her hips, guiding them into a rhythmical, pumping motion around his cock.

Their timing was in complete synchronization as if they had been lovers for years, knowing when to release that final thrust. Marta's body arched and her head flung back, groaning loudly with the sensations.

A few moments passed before they regained their composure, breathing heavily with the aftermath of their climaxes.

Marta crouched over him, looking very animal-like.

"You ought to bottle that stuff," she said, still catching her breath. "You're unbelievable."

"You ain't too bad yourself," Napoleon murmured, breathing heavily as well. His hands cupped the back of Marta's head as he brought her closer.

* * * * *

The telephone rang as Napoleon was crawling into bed. He looked at his watch - 3:45 am. Marta was about to leave.

"Solo here," he announced into the receiver.

"Aah, Mr. Solo. I was wondering when you would pick up the phone." Mr. Waverly was annoyed at having to wait for his senior agent.

"Sorry, sir." Napoleon looked up at Marta, smiling. "I missed my whirlpool therapy this afternoon, and Dr. Holtzman was kind enough to squeeze me in tonight."

Marta held up one hand to Napoleon, shaking her head and requesting he go no further with his explanation.

"Actually," Solo continued, "the whirlpool's stimulation has done wonders for me. I practically feel like my old self."

Marta winced.

"Hmmm," Mr. Waverly sighed, knowing Solo as well as he did. "I almost initiated a full scale search of the premises."

"I can appreciate that, sir."

"Back to the matter at hand. I'm having you released from the hospital at 6 am. You will be picked up by agent Frank Stiegenwald."

"We've met. And my destination?"

"That's undisclosable at the moment."

"I understand."

"Good night, Mr. Solo. And please, get at least a little rest before you leave."

"Yes, Mr. Waverly."

Solo hung up the receiver and turned his attention to Marta, who was furious with his conversation."

"Do you realize I could lose my license if he chooses to report me?"

"Report you for what, my dear? I merely said that you took me for a dip in the whirlpool."

"Oh, come on, Napoleon. He knows you better than that."

Her arms were waving in the air, emphasizing her ire. Napoleon sat up and stilled the arms, hoping she would settle down.

"Mr. Waverly also knows when to turn a blind eye," he assured her. "Besides, I'm officially discharged from your care. I leave at 6."

Her agitation ceased and her body relaxed. Solo wrapped his arms and legs around her, gently entrapping her slender body .

"So you're leaving soon?" she murmured while running her fingers through his still-damp hair. "We were just getting to know each other."

"We still have two hours."

Napoleon deftly guided Marta on to his bed, smothering her with kisses, cuddling and caressing his willing partner.

"Only two hours?" Marta lamented.

Slowly, seductively, they undressed each other until they lay naked, wrapped only in each other's embrace. Napoleon's ribs were beginning to rebel, so he reclined on his right side, allowing some of his weight to press against Marta.

The long, powerful limbs encompassing her body excited her. Their slightest movements made her tingle. Napoleon instinctively seemed to know what aroused her. His lips parted hers, and as their tongues thrusted and parried, Solo parted her thighs with one leg, bringing his own thigh up to her groin, moving ever so slightly and rhythmically. Warm hands roamed up and down her body, finally cupping her breasts. Napoleon lowered his head, placing one nipple in his mouth, then the other.

Napoleon lay Marta on her back, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his side as he covered her body with his own. He separated her thighs with his knee. and slid his erect penis inside her, pushing all the way until his entire shaft was consumed by her warmth and moistness. In ecstasy, Marta was practically gasping for breath, eyes opened wide at the sensations charging through her body. He was a master at this, knowing when to thrust and when to pull back, how far to push, when to touch, where to touch, what to say. He was able to stay his ejaculation until the exact moment she was ready. Their bodies arched in climaxed in unison, electricity seemingly coursed through them before their bodies relaxed.  
  
They stayed together until slightly before 5:30, at which time Dr. Holtzman showered, dressed, and combed her hair, trying to look as professional as possible. She picked up Napoleon's chart, and as she was leaving his hospital room, she passed the night nurse who was about to enter.

"You're up early for rounds this morning, Dr. Holtzman," the nurse chirped.

"I just discharged him," Marta replied, smiling slightly.

* * * * *

Sunday was the only non-working day for the prisoners. The entire population of the compound was given the luxury of sleeping later, and although the guards on duty appeared a bit more lax, Franz Kaufmann made sure security was tight and everyone was present and accounted for.

The computer was still in various degrees of non-assembly, leaving Illya bored to distraction with his current assignment. Plots of escape even crossed his mind, if for nothing else than to keep his brain alert and functioning. On rare occasions, he even lowered his standards and joined conversations with his comrades at arms.

Gretchen was given several days off. Josef Chalkler had absolutely no work for her to do, no reports to write or update, no urgent Thrush matters needed attention. He handed her his Eurail pass and told her to head off and enjoy herself for a few days. Without a second thought, she obliged, packed a few things in a backpack and headed off in her car.

As she left the compound, a car approached hers, slowing down to let her pass. She rolled down her window and waved ‘thank you', hoping the driver of the other car would do as well.

"Aah, it's the lovely Fraulein Fiedler," an unfamiliar voice greeted. She tried to place the accent...Italian speaking German, perhaps?

Gretchen stopped her car and got out.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"Not really, but I know a little about you."

"Oh?" She tried to remain relaxed although she could feel a twinge of anxiety.

"How rude of me. Of course you don't know who I am. I'm Gustav Brancato, a close associate of Erich Von Koeinghoffer," he explained, taking her hand in his.

"It's nice to meet you," she said politely, hoping to cut this interlude short.

"Both Erich and Josef have made me aware of your work with Thrush. We're all quite proud of you." He kept hold of her hand.

"Well, I appreciate the kind words, but I must be on my way," she said smiling, trying to remove her hand from his as nonoffensively as possible.

"Why the rush?"

Gretchen smiled. "Josef Chalkler just gave me a few days' holiday, and to be honest with you, when he comes to his senses, I want to be long gone."

"I understand. Perhaps some other time, then."

* * * * *

Gretchen toured the streets of Pützen, hoping to lose anyone who may have decided to tail her. She parked the car at the rail station and entered the terminal, then doubled back to one of Pützen Hospital's secretive entrances on foot.

Once inside, she contacted Mr. Waverly immediately about Gustav Brancato's presence at the compound.

"Fortunately, Dr. Zeinreich, he's not a high ranking Thrush agent," Alexander Waverly explained. "He's basically a close friend of Von Koeinghoffer, who does him an occasional favor by making him feel important. No need for alarm."

"Are you sure?" Gretchen asked. "I could return immediately."

"Yes, my dear. He's virtually harmless. Enjoy your few days off."

* * * * *

"Hey, Gustav! It's been ages!" Chalkler greeted his guest. "What brings you here?"

"I've been out of touch with Erich. Have you heard from him lately?"

"Come on, Brancato," he chided. "You know Erich...always secretive about where he goes."

"It's been over a week and a half since we've spoken. We always meet for lunch the third Friday of the month, and he never showed up. He usually calls me if he can't make it," Gustav explained.

"Well, the last I saw him it was mid-July and he was on his way to the airport. It's been really dull around here and there was no need for him to stay."

"Dull?"

Chalkler laughed. "Take a look at our prison population...all seven of them. They're not criminals. They're not even dangerous. They were all sent here on petty stuff, lapses of judgment. Where's the challenge? If I had Von Koeinghoffer's autonomy, I'd leave, too."

"That bad, eh?"

They began walking towards the main office.

"I finally had a chance to meet Fraulein Fiedler. We passed on the road."

Josef Chalkler stopped walking.

"And...?"

"You were right. She is one beautiful woman," Gustav sighed.

"Looks may be deceiving. She can be a real bitch."

"No..." Brancato looked at Chalkler, who simply nodded. "...you're kidding?"

"I gave her a few days' leave just to get her out of my hair. At least you'll have a little peace and quiet during your visit."  
  
After lunch, Josef Chalkler toured his guest around the compound. Illya recognized Gustav Brancato immediately and tried to maintain a low profile.

_Gustav Brancato, relatively useless yet slightly influential, thanks to Erich Von Koeinghoffer. Kuryakin and Brancato had briefly crossed paths in Madrid over a year before, when his UNCLE team snatched a detained nuclear physicist from under Thrush's nose. Von Koeinghoffer left Brancato in charge of securing the scientist, assuming it was a low-priority case. To avert further embarrassment, Von Koeinghoffer glossed over the botched affair, keeping Brancato safe from additional repercussions. Both men swore they would never forgive Illya Kuryakin._

Illya discreetly ducked away when the Thrush duo approached, hoping to remain completely invisible. He overheard Chalkler ordering Kaufmann to assemble the guards for Brancato's inspection. Kuryakin squatted down, then removed his hat and picked up a handful of dirt. He rubbed it in his hair, hoping to darken it a few shades. After replacing his cap, he dutifully fell into the ranks with the other guards.

Gustav Brancato tried to look authoritative during the inspection, talking to the guards, questioning them, reprimanding them on a wrinkled shirt or scuffed boots.

Karl Schlosser stood behind the first row, head tilted down slightly so the brim of his cap could conceal part of his face. Brancato approached, questioning Schlosser for what seemed like an eternity.

"Your name?"

"Karl Schlosser, sir."

"Where are you from?

"Dusseldorf, sir."

"How old are you?"

"23 years old, sir."

"Schlosser...Schlosser..." Brancato was fishing. "I was in the army with a Tomas Schlosser. Is he your father?"

"No, sir," Illya replied, knowing very well that Gustav Brancato never made it into the army.

"Hmmm." Brancato eyed Schlosser one last time and continued his inspection.  
  
"Tell me about Schlosser," Brancato requested after dismissing the guards. They walked several yards away and stopped.

Chalkler chuckled.

"Schlosser? The only good one in the bunch."  
  
From a safe distance, Illya watched the exchange, looking around for an escape if necessary. The compound doors were shut with no chance of them reopening for him. Deliveries were suspended until Monday. The walls - he looked up at approximately 25 feet of vertical concrete with razor wire and shards of glass embedded at the top. He saw Gretchen leave over an hour ago...the backpack indicated she would be gone for a few days. _Damn!_ Schlosser knelt down to tie his shoe, scratching his leg in the process.  
  
"Does he look familiar to you at all?" Brancato asked Chalkler.

"Not really. Why do you ask?"

"I'm not sure. There's something about him."

Chalkler thought for a moment, recalling the day Karl Schlosser first came into the compound. He remembered checking his credentials several times before deeming them authentic.

Brancato walked several more yards when the identity became apparent. He demanded that Karl Schlosser be brought to him immediately. To his surprise, Schlosser came willingly, escorted by two senior guards.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Illya asked, maintaining Schlosser's demeanor.

Gustav grabbed Schlosser's shirt and pulled him closer. With his free hand, he tossed the cap off Schlosser's head and mussed up his hair, causing the dirt and dust to fall out. The blond hair became more apparent.

"Do you recognize him now?" Brancato asked.

Chalker grinned. "Illya Kuryakin. I should have known."

"Who?" Schlosser questioned, stalling for time.

Josef Chalker drew back his hand and slapped Illya across the cheek.

"Cut the crap, Kuryakin," he seethed.

Karl Schlosser stood completely still, as though he had never been struck.

"You must have me confused with someone else," Illya said, looking Chalker straight in the eyes. "I'm Karl Schlos..."

Before he could finish the sentence, Chalkler took a firm hold on Kuryakin's upper arm and began dragging him towards the prison cell. Again, Schlosser went along willingly. Gustav Brancato followed at a safe distance behind the two men.

Within feet of the cooler's entrance, Kuryakin silently flexed his free arm, causing a knife to drop into his grasp. Immediately, he spun around to dig the weapon into Chalkler's side. The Thrush Commandant instinctively slid his body sideways, averting the major thrust of the knife. Despite his efforts, Kuryakin's knife did slice through the side Chalkler's body, causing him to release his grasp to double over in pain.

Gustav froze, uncertain as to what Kuryakin's next move would be. Illya took advantage of this momentary lull and tossed a small ball of plastic explosives at Brancato, killing him instantly. By the time assistance arrived, Illya had run away virtually in a cloud of smoke.

The layout of the compound did not accommodate hiding places. The buildings were rectangular and non-complicated, with niche-less straight walls. No shrubbery or trees or other distractions were available to help screen a fleeing UNCLE agent.

He stayed low and as out of sight as possible.

Rope. He needed rope.

The only rope which came to mind was the cordon used to set the boundaries for the building under construction. Through sheer luck Illya made it to the site. Fortunately, no one was digging; it was Sunday.

Kuryakin threw himself into the ditch unseen and began removing the cord, keeping constant watch. As soon as he gathered about 30 feet of rope, he slipped out of the ditch and ran to the nearest wall.

Illya formed a slip-knot on one end and tossed it to the top of the wall, hoping the lasso would catch on to something and hold. No good; the rope came hurling back down at him. He moved a bit to the right and tried a second time. No luck either.

The sound of running bootsteps announced that Thrush guards were nearing, and in desperation, Kuryakin tried one last time. He tugged the line. It held!

With the agility of a monkey, Illya climbed up the rope, never looking down. Within seconds he was out of the Thrush guards' reach. He kept his gaze on the top of the wall, climbing nearer by the second.

Someone below grabbed the rope, swayed it and struck it against the wall. The initial slam merely caused Illya to freeze for a few seconds, but he kept his focus on the wall's peak and continued to climb. The second time he was forcibly knocked into the wall, he lost his grip and slid back several feet. After catching his breath, he continued his upward climb.

The swaying stopped. The rope was pulled taught. A piercing ‘zing' passed Illya's right ear before he felt the tension on the rope slip. He looked up just as the rope was beginning to unravel.

For the first time, Illya looked down to the ground below. A sharpshooter was standing with his rifle still readied to fire a second bullet if the first one did not work.

As the rope continued to unravel, Illya could feel the tension slip more and more. He tried to finish him climb, but the rope split before he made it to the top and Illya fell to the ground.

As Illya opened his eyes, a circle of Thrush guards had surrounded him, creating an unusual visual fish-eye lens effect. He lay still for a moment, trying to assess his injuries, if any. He had fallen feet-first, then bent his knees and rolled with the impact, offering him the safest landing under the circumstances. He was only winded.

Franz Kaufmann was the first to enter the fish-eye circle. He grabbed Kuryakin by the hair and shirt collar and dragged him to his feet.

Kaufmann shook his head.

"You had me fooled," he sneered, punching Illya in the abdoman. "I hate being deceived!"

Illya ignored the pain signals and returned the blows, only to be subdued by the remaining fish-eye Thrush guards seconds later. After a short struggle, he found himself lying face down on the ground, held by several guards with his left cheek in the dirt.

Out of the corner of one eye, Kuryakin saw Chalkler approaching with a hypodermic needle in one hand. Blood still stained his left side where the knife had sliced into the skin. With no expression, Chalkler squatted down beside him and injected the contents of a knock-out drug into the UNCLE agent.


	5. Chapter 5

Illya Kuryakin absolutely hated Thrush's brand of knock-out drugs. They apparently went out of their way to created a drug which could wreak havoc after the majority of it had worn off. This one was no different.

An indeterminable amount of time had passed before the UNCLE agent began regaining consciousness. The more he came to his senses, the more he wished he hadn't. The headache and nausea increased concurrently with his waking, until the light and sound mirrored the effects of a full blown migraine.

His muscles ached and his limbs would not move as he commanded them. After several more attempts, he heard the sound of metal scraping a concrete floor. His arms were behind bound his back and something was prevented his feet from moving at will. Shackles.

Illya looked down at his body the best he could. His Thrush uniform and had been removed, and well as probably all his defensive toys.

 _No more plastic explosive faux scars,_ he realized.

He finally looked up at his environs. Now, he was the prisoner in the cell, feet chained to the bolt in the concrete floor, hands cuffed behind his back. Compared to the concrete, the mattress, thin and dirty as it was, looked inviting. Illya tried to slither towards it, hoping his chains would reach. Immediately, heard four simultaneous ‘clicks' indicating that four guns had their safety catches removed and were ready to fire. Which meant that four guards were guarding him, trying to avert another UNCLE Houdini-esque escape.

"I don't suppose there's any room for discussion about this," Illya mused, trying to stay the residual effects of the knockout drug.

No answer.  
  
Hours passed. The guards had been twice replaced yet no one approached Kuryakin. Assuming they planned to treat him as graciously as when Napoleon was their guest, surely someone would have tried to glean information from him by now. Illya wasn't sure what was worse...the boredom, hunger, or discomfort of lying on the concrete floor. The guards stood like statues, their gaze never leaving him. He finally gave up trying to analyze the situation and fell asleep.  
  
Sleep was eventually disrupted by the creak of the cell door opening, then slamming shut. The sound of bootsteps hastened as they neared Illya then abruptly halted, followed by the toe of one boot nudging him further awake.

The blue eyes opened to Franz Kaufmann squatting down beside him.

"Well, Kuryakin, you're shit out of luck," the disciplinarian smirked. "You have no back-up this time, do you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Illya half mumbled, turning his head away to fall back asleep.

Kaufmann stood up, nudging Kuryakin harder.

"We just completed a background check on everyone in the compound and no one has any connections with UNCLE whatsoever," a second voice added. Josef Chalkler was in attendance as well. "...so, we have you at our disposal until one of your comrades foolishly tries to rescue you."

"You didn't bring my dinner along with you, by chance?" Illya asked. "I'm hungry."

Chalkler nodded to one of his guards and Illya was immediately brought to his feet. Kuryakin and Chalkler stood face to face.

"Get used to it," Chalker smirked.

The handcuffs binding Illya's wrists were unlocked and both arms were immediately restrained by two other guards. The UNCLE agent struggled against their hold, hoping to stave off the inevitable. He had previously watched as Napoleon was manacled from above with his feet chained to the floor below, completely helpless and vulnerable, then practically beaten to death. As he strained to free his arms, a blow to his back knocked the wind out of him, giving the guards the advantage to cuff his hands in front of his body and attaching them to the chain. Illya never saw who was pressing the controls to raise the chain from overhead, but he felt his body being stretched and vertically elongated until it was taut as a bowstring.

"Why are you here?" Chalkler asked as he circled Illya's body.

The UNCLE agent chuckled. "Why do you even bother asking me? You're the one who gave me the knockout drug and left me here."

Another blow from behind landed across the back of his legs. Kuryakin's eyes shut tightly trying to compose himself after the flash of pain forced the breath from him once more.

Illya looked around and saw Kaufmann standing off to the side, menacingly waving a wide strap by his thigh.

"Let me get this straight," Chalkler continued. "Napoleon Solo was conveniently captured right outside our gates, allowed himself to be brought inside and roughed up a bit. Hmmm...I'm a bit confused." Chalker moved closer to Illya, staring him straight in the eyes. "Why would he want to do that?"

"He heard the Crême Brulée was beyond comparison," Illya returned.

As he anticipated, another blow followed, this one across his buttocks. Then another. Then a third.

"Discovering your presence definitely solves several unanswered questions."

"Glad to be of service." Illya was trying to regain his breath without appearing too stressed.

"When Solo escaped the first time, you were the first person to find him. He should have been in too much pain to move about that easily. What exactly did you give him?"

"Give him?" Illya asked innocently.

Chalkler held out his hand, motioning for Kaufmann to pass the strap. He took a firm hold of it and whacked it across the front of Illya's thighs.

"Don't be coy, Kuryakin. What did you give him, and where did you get it?"

"Weren't they in my Thrush kit bag?"

Josef moved back several feet and struck Illya across the chest. The shirt's thin fabric offered little protection against the force of the blow, and this time, Illya's body jerked wildly with the impact.

"Wrong answer. Try again," Chalker ordered, grabbing a fistfull of Illya's hair to accentuate his point.

"It was a mild painkiller and sedative. Standard UNCLE issue," Kuryakin gasped. Useless information, he thought, but it might buy him a little time.

The Thrush commandant released his grip and continued his interrogation.

"Looking back, Solo conveniently passed out was after you placed your hands on him." Chalker smiled. "And to think we all assumed you merely like touching other men." The smile vanished. "How did you manage that little trick?"

"Sleep dart," Illya confessed. More useless information.

"You shot him?"

"No, I picked one off the magazine clip and stuck him with it."

Chalkler's eyebrows raised. "Very resourceful. Now tell me, how did you eventually get him out of here?"

Illya forced a smile. "Talk to Von Koeinghoffer's driver. He's the one who left the car conveniently outside the door. Keys and all."

The answer angered Chalker, who beat Illya with the strap several more times, landing his blows with increasing intensity.

"Are you suggesting that one of Erich's men was assisting you?"

It had become more and more difficult for Illya to catch his breath, his head falling back instinctively to open his airway.

"Have you seen him around much lately?" Kuryakin rasped.

Chalkler passed the strap back to Kaufmann and circled Illya twice.

"I assume once you got Solo out of the gates, your rendezvous point was prearranged. How did you contact them?"

Illya smirked. "My communicator."

"Impossible!" Chalkler barked. "We would have detected your transmission."

"I guess it slipped through your screening, didn't it?"

"Where is it now. It wasn't on you, nor was it in your belongings."

"I tucked it into Napoleon's litter as they were lifting him," Illya confessed. Another useless tidbit.

"And where exactly did they take him?"

"I haven't a clue."

Kaufmann planned his next strikes carefully, aiming them at spots already tender from previous hits. He grinned at Illya's distress. The dangling body arched and twitched with each blow.

"And you expect me to believe that?"

Sweat was pouring down the agent's face as the pain intensified.

"Believe what you want," he finally said. "I was not privy to that information. They withhold it for a reason."

Chalkler paused, smiling.

"I must say it was rather smart of you to double back and rejoin the ranks. Covered in blood yet. I now assume that it was Solo's blood on you clothes. You injured yourself to cover it up. We never suspected a thing."

Illya did not say a word.

"Now, tell me," Chalkler went on. "Why exactly did you come here?"

More silence.

Chalkler nodded to Kaufmann and stood back, allowing the disciplinarian to do his job.

Franz Kaufmann knew when to stop. Once he observed Illya teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, he lowered the UNCLE agent to the floor. The leg manacles were left in place, but the handcuffs were removed long enough to secure his arms from behind. Illya offered no resistance. The intensity and severity of the beating left Illya shaking from the pain and drastically weakened.

The lights went out immediately after Chalker and Kaufmann exited the cell. They never spoke another word to Illya before leaving him dazed and bleeding on the concrete floor.

Not a ray of light entered through the windowless concrete walls. The blackness within the cell was complete.

He had no clue to the time of day, or if Monday had arrived. Not that it mattered. At the moment, his all consuming concern was the pain which racked his body and how, if at all possible, he could escape.

Instinctively, Illya tested his bonds, knowing damn well they were secure. With his legs tethered to the floor, he was unable to even slip the handcuffs under his rear end to bring his hands in front. He tried sitting up, but the awkwardness of his bound hands caused him to fall backwards. After several minutes, he gave up and began focusing on calming himself, in hopes of minimizing his pain.

Illya jolted to his senses as the lights above him glared. Simultaneously the outer door to the cell opened, followed by the barred inner door. The soft light of early morning entered the room for a few brief seconds.  
Josef Chalkler locked the inner door as he entered. He was alone this time, carrying a brown paper sack and a medical bag.

"Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin," he cheerfully chirped. "I take it the arrangements met with your specifications?"

Dry mouthed, Illya attempted to speak without much success. He lay on the floor like a limp sack of grain trying not to awaken the pain cells throughout his body. Chalkler unlocked the leg chains and dragged the agent to the mattress, propping him up against the wall. The rough movement jolted the Russian's pain centers, causing him to bare his teeth and cry out as he was being scraped across the concrete.

He gave Kuryakin a rudimentary check over.

Illya merely glared at him, still breathing heavily.

"I assume that if I remove your handcuffs, you'll be a good boy and stay put?" the Commandant asked, raising his eyebrows. He was well aware that Illya was badly weakened by the previous night's beating and offered no immediate threat.

Silently, Illya closed his eyes and nodded.

Chalkler reached behind Kuryakin and unlocked the cuffs. The agent brought both hands in front of him, gently rubbing the deeply cut wrists and then the muscles in his upper arms, knotted and tight from being bound behind him. He brought his knees to his chest and pitched forward slightly to alleviate the hunger pangs.

The paper bag rustled as Chalkler brought out a large bottle of water and a small chunk of brown bread. Illya eyed him suspiciously as he was handed the minimal repast. His gut feeling told him to refuse the food and water, but his level of desperation forced him to override his instincts and accept them.

Neither was drugged or poisoned. Simple bread and water, quintessential prisoner fare. No words were spoken between them, no threats, no questions.

When Illya was finished, Chalkler took the water bottle from him and tossed it back into the brown bag. The handcuffs were replaced with Illya's arms once again behind his back, and the manacles were relocked around the agent's ankles. But this time, the lock was secured to a bolt in the wall, allowing him to lay on the mattress. Still without a word, the Commandant picked up his belongings and walked out of the cell, locking both doors securely behind him and turning off the lights.

* * * * *

The following morning, Franz Kaufmann charged into the cell. In the Russian's dazed state, the movements were a blur and it took several seconds too long to assess the situation. The disciplinarian was standing over him, kicking him. Gasps turned to grunts, which increased in volume as Kaufmann continued.

The kicking stopped. Kaufmann turned Illya over on to his back, making it even more difficult for the agent to breathe. Rough hands grasped the collar of his shirt and pulled him to his feet, then slammed him against the wall. Seconds later, Kuryakin was turned around so his face pressed against the wall as the handcuffs were unlocked. His hands fell limply to his sides.

"Take off your shirt!" Kaufmann growled.

Illya tried to turn around and face his captor, only to pushed against the wall again.

"I did not tell you to move. Take off your shirt!" he repeated.

Kuryakin crossed his arms in front of him and grabbed the hem of the T-shirt. As Illya began raising it above his head, he jammed his elbow into the disciplinarian's chest. As Kaufmann's head instinctively lowered with the blow, Illya smashed his elbow into his face.

In a split second, the agent pinned Kaufmann to the mat beneath him, holding him steady while groping for keys to free himself.

Kaufmann struggled against Illya's weight and finally rolled himself out of Kuryakin's reach, knowing that Illya's ankles were still manacled to the wall. He held his bleeding nose as he stood.

Realizing the damage, he looked up savagely at Illya and charged at him, knocking him to the ground. Illya's hands were still free. He successfully warded off the majority of the blows and administered a few of his own before Josef Chalkler intervened, wielding rubber nightstick.

Within seconds, Illya was stopped with several blows to the back and ribs. He curled himself into a ball on the mattress, trying to protect his chest from additional hits. Chalkler struck him twice more, this time on the flesh at the back of his legs. Kaufmann stood over him, tugging at the T-shirt.

This time, Illya relented, uncurling his shaking body to sit up and pull the shirt over his head. The welts and bruises on his chest and back created a dark red and purplish contrast against the pale skin. Then, Kaufmann's boot flattened him on the mattress once again.

"Herr Chalkler, would you be so kind as to unlock Mr. Kuryakin's feet?"

After the ankle chains were opened, Kaufmann ordered Illya to remove his jeans. The UNCLE agent's hands were shaking, making it difficult for him to undo them. Impatiently, Kaufmann bent over him and unfastened the jeans, then started removing them from his body.

Franz Kaufmann pulled one pant leg, then the other, forcing the jeans to slowly drag down Illya's sore, swollen legs. The Russian held on to the waistband and twisted violently, trying to keep his jeans in place. Again, the sole of a boot clamped down on his back. From the corner of his eye, Illya could see Chalkler standing above him, steadying him while Kaufmann continued pulling the jeans off his body. With methodical precision, Illya was once again bound and hung from the overhead chain after being stripped naked. His muscles and joints rebelled at the unnatural stress, spasming at first then settling into agonizing throbs.

Both Chalkler and Kaufmann stood back, admiring their handiwork. The UNCLE agent's body twitched within the bounds of the manacles' tension and in a short period of time, his skin was sweat soaked and clammy.

"The temperature's going up over 100 today, with at least 95% humidity. In several hours, it should exceed those figures in here," Herr Chalkler stated. He then turned towards Kaufmann and smiled. "We'd better get started then."

By 9 o'clock in the morning, the two Thrush officers emerged from the prison cell, sweaty and splattered with blood. For more than an hour, they interrogated and tortured Illya Kuryakin, stopping only when Chalker felt it was mortally necessary.

The UNCLE agent still refused to talk, stubbornly maintaining his silence while being beaten practically senseless. Towards the end of the session, Illya's screams pierced the prison cell, giving both Chalkler and Kaufmann the satisfaction that their captive was about to be broken.

But they were forced to quit earlier than they planned when the color drained from Illya's skin and his eyes began rolling back into his skull. He was immediately lowered to the floor. The agent's body shut down from the intense pain, leaving him in a stupor.

* * * * *

"Well look who's back!" Chalkler remarked as he entered the main office.

Gretchen was coming out of her apartment, hair still wet from a recent shower. A surprised expression crossed her face at his appearance.

"We didn't expect you back for a few days," he continued.

"I ran out of money." Gretchen fumbled through her pockets until she found Josef's Eurail pass. "And what the hell happened to you?" she asked as she handed the pass back to him.

Josef leafed through it.

"You only made it to Switzerland?"

"It got expensive so I headed back. It was nice getting away for a few days. Thanks!"

"Well, we had a little excitement while you were gone. You'd never guess the real identity of Karl Schlosser..."

_Gretchen had never left the confines of the hospital during her few days' absence. An UNCLE forger placed the appropriate stamps on the Eurail pass, indicating that she had left the country and subsequently returned. She spent time with Marta and played around in the lab, enjoying the mental stimulation she so direly needed at the moment._

"He's actually Illya Kuryakin?" Gretchen repeated. "That's impossible. He doesn't resemble Kuryakin much at all."

"He darkened his hair and put on a Thrush uniform. He had us all fooled. The dear departed Gustav Brancato was the only person who saw through it." Chalkler walked towards his apartment door to take a well needed shower.

"Brancato is dead? How?" Gretchen asked.

"Kuryakin tossed an explosive in his direction. Poor Gustav couldn't get out of the way in time."  
  
Gretchen was alone in the office once he left. She waited five long minutes before picking up the telephone receiver to call Marta. In one seemingly short jovial message, she conveyed to UNCLE that Illya's cover had been blown and that he in need of immediate help.  
  
As predicted, the temperature and humidity rose throughout the day. The prisoners were released from their work detail and allowed to return to their quarters, and most of the guards were on light duty. The air conditioned main office shielded its occupants from the mucky weather outdoors.

Gretchen tried to maintain a calm exterior. She knew Illya had been at Thrush's mercy for the past three days, but was not able to ascertain his exact physical condition. Noting the condition of Chalkler's clothing when she saw him earlier, she assumed Illya had been hurt. She tried nonchalantly prying the information from her boss, who preferred not to talk about it.

* * * * *

"Damn!" Chalkler fumed, looking at his watch. 3:35 pm. He was in the middle of writing his report to Thrush Central when he realized that he had not checked Kuryakin since they left him that morning.

Gretchen was working on the compound's weekly payroll when her superior started to get up from his desk.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I never got around to checking on Kuryakin," he sighed.

He went into the infirmary and picked up his medical bag. Midway to the door he stopped and turned around, smiling.

"Fraulein Fiedler, would you be a dear and do it for me?"

"And why would I want to do that?" she replied curtly.

"Because you were looking for a way to thank me for giving you a few days off?"

"Aah - so there were strings attached!" she chuckled. "I should have known."

"Just short ones. Will you do it?"

Gretchen reluctantly stood up and sighed.

"I need to put on my shoes first," she said, plodding into her apartment barefooted. She came out a moment later with her own medical bag and walked out the door.  
  
Two senior guards stood outside the cooler's door with their rifles slung over their shoulders, despite the blistering heat and humidity. They nodded to Gretchen as she approached, then silently unlocked both the outer door and then the inner door.

As the outer door opened, hot, foul smelling air escaped the environs of the cell. Gretchen tried not to overreact after walking inside, but the expression on her face indicated that she was truly sickened by the stench. The guard who escorted her in asked if she was going to be all right. She nodded and motioned for him to let her do her job. He stayed for a moment, but then left, preferring the fresher air outside.

Gretchen briefly surveyed the scenario while testing the privacy in the cell with her ring. No bugs or video devices were detected. Illya lay on his side with his back towards the door, still naked with his hands cuffed behind his back. His body was covered with bruises and bloody welts. Except for shaking slightly and short, choppy breaths, he remained still, unfazed by the lights or the sounds of her entering. She knelt beside him and called his name softly.

The only response she got was a brief glance out of the corner of his eye, then he once more looked away. Although he desperately needed help, being seen in this condition humiliated him beyond words.

Illya felt her fingers pressing the side of his neck, checking his pulse. He could have told her his heartbeat was racing and erratic. Torture had a tendency to do that. The blood pressure cuff came out next. He winced and gritted his teeth while the cuff filled with air, compressing the already sore muscles of his left arm.

The reading was much higher than normal for him.

"This will help," she said quietly as she injected the contents of a small syringe into his left biceps.

20, 30 seconds later Illya's breathing pattern relaxed slightly as the pain faded. He shut his eyes savoring the sensation, barely feeling Gretchen beginning to probe and prod his body, checking for injuries.

"I want to take your temperature," she informed him after removing the thermometer from the medical bag.

Illya wanted no part of it and turned his head away from her even further, still not saying a word. She gently forced his face back towards her, opened his mouth and placed the thermometer under his tongue.

"Please don't fight me, Illya," Gretchen sighed. "I want to help you, so work with me, OK?"

She tried turning him on to his back, but he resisted, shrugging off her touch.

"Do you feel any of this?" she asked.

Illya merely shook his head slowly, still refusing to move.

"If you're worried about being naked, believe me...it's nothing I haven't seen before," she mused.

He still refused, knowing very well that if Gretchen wanted him to roll over, she would have no problem forcing him to do so in his current condition.

Rather than humiliate the agent further, she reached over him, checking his abdomen, stomach, and chest for internal injuries. None seemed present; all the damage to his body had been relatively superficial.

Several minutes passed and Gretchen removed the thermometer. 103. Equally as dire to his injuries would be dehydration and heat stroke; his body was overheating and was in the process of shutting down.

The room was airless, and the stench was oppressive. Gretchen abruptly stood up and walked to the outer door, knocking on it to alert the guards she was ready to leave.

"That was quick," Jon Linder, the first guard, remarked.

"I can't do anything with him under these conditions," she snapped. "He has festering wounds and he stinks to high heaven. No way am I working on him in there!"

"We have no orders to..." the second guard, Frederic Spelman, began.

"I don't care about your orders! I have my orders to clean him up and give him water. I can't do it in there!"

"What do you..." Spelman continued.

"I want you to take him outside and wash him down!" Gretchen demanded.

"Sorry, Fraulein, we can't do that."

"And why not?"

"Our orders were to keep him inside until we heard otherwise," Linder explained nervously.

"Well, this is your ‘otherwise'. Take him out and clean him up. And throw a towel around him while you're at it," she ordered, curling up her nose at the prospect of seeing him naked.

"Not unless Herr Chalkler or Herr Kaufmann gives us the orders," Jon Linder insisted.

Gretchen grabbed a walkie-talkie from Linder's belt and contacted Josef Chalkler in the office a mere few yards away. Her voice cackled through her mouthpiece into Josef's earpiece, and he finally requested she hand the unit over to Jon Linder. She did. Chalkler exchanged a few words with him, then the guard chuckled. He turned off the walkie-talkie, opened the door and brought Kuryakin out into the sunlight. The two guards took him around the back of the cooler to clean him up.

"And use some soap!" Gretchen called from the side of the building.  
  
Illya was seated on a makeshift bench while the two guards hosed him down. The cool water began lowering his temperature, reviving him slightly.

"Where does she expect us to get soap?" Linder asked.

Spelman told him to get some from the prisoners' quarters next door.

Before walking away, he asked Linder what Chalkler said on the walkie-talkie.

Linder smiled, "He said to do whatever she wants. It'll be easier that way."

* * * * *

Gretchen waited impatiently while Illya was being washed. She heard him moan and grunt during the process, hoping that he was merely disguising the fact that she had injected him with a powerful pain killer. The water was eventually turned off and Jon Linder informed her that Kuryakin was all clean and ready for her.

She grunted a "Thank you" and went around the back to where he still sat on the bench, his hands still bound behind his back. They obliged her and wrapped a towel around his waist.

Before tending to Illya, she turned her attention once again to the guards.

"Can you get someone to hose down the inside of the cell? Lord only knows what's on that floor and the smell is horrendous."

"Of course, Fraulein. Anything else?" Spelman asked sarcastically.

"Yes. Air it out if you can."

With only Linder in attendance, Gretchen opened the medical bag and began looking over the UNCLE agent. He was extremely weak, but his blood pressure had normalized and his heart slowed to a more regular beat.

"Have you had anything to eat or drink today?" she asked.

Illya shrugged his shoulders.

"Are you nauseous at all?"

"A little."

Gretchen took a large plastic cup from the bag and asked the guard to fill it with water. When he returned, she asked him to unlock the handcuffs. Reluctantly, he followed her orders.

Almost immediately, Illya wrapped his arms around the front of him, and bent over from the waist to relax the muscles in his chest and shoulders.

Before giving the cup to Illya, she discreetly dropped three tablets into it, shielding her actions from the guard with her body. He wanted to gulp the water, get it down his parched throat as rapidly as possible. Gretchen stopped him before he began, warning him to slow down a bit. Illya nodded and sipped the water at first, gradually taking larger amounts.

Gretchen observed him for a few moments before giving him more. When she was satisfied that he could keep it down, she asked the guard for more.

In the short time they were outside, Gretchen managed to cool him down and rehydrate him, and clean up several of the more severe wounds. But she knew her efforts would be negated once Kaufmann and Chalkler got their hands on him again. When Illya finished the second cup of water, Gretchen requested a third, and slipped Illya a knock-out pill before she left. He assumed it was the same type she had inserted in Napoleon's molar, giving him a 15 minute window before he would be drifting off into four hours of peace.  
  
On the way back into the cell, Franz Kaufmann approached the two guards dragging Kuryakin between them.

"What the hell are you doing with him?" Kaufmann bellowed to the guards.

"Fraulein Fiedler asked us to clean him up," Frederic Spelman explained.

"On whose authority?" Kaufmann shrieked.

"Herr Chalkler's, sir."

Kaufmann muttered something guttural and ordered Kuryakin be brought back inside the cell and suspended on to the overhead chain.

The cooler had been hosed down, slightly relieving the stench. The guard aired out the room the best he could, but it still remained hot and airless. Illya knew that his body temperature would begin to rise again shortly, but at least he would only have to tolerate Kaufmann's abuse for approximately 10 more minutes. By that time, Gretchen's drug should be kicking in.

Illya made the appropriate outcries and grunts as he was being manacled to the overhead chain. Fortunately, he felt nothing at all.

Kaufmann approached the captive agent carrying a long, thin wooden rod.

"Has your tongue loosened up a bit?" Kaufmann harshly asked.

"It all depends," Illya gasped, once again finding it difficult to breathe from this hyperextended position. "What is it you want to know?"

Herr Kaufmann stood back a smiled. Maybe he was making headway after all.

"For starters, why have you infiltrated this compound?"

"UNCLE wanted me to check it out as a prototype for our own prison system," Kuryakin said with a straight face. Unfortunately, the minutes were not passing as quickly as he'd like. "We get the occasional rotten apple as well, you know." His chest was beginning to heave under the strain of his own weight being suspended.

"I'm not humored, Kuryakin. My patience is wearing thin."

"I wasn't aware you had any patience at all," Illya baited, still stalling.

Without another word, Franz Kaufmann removed the towel which remained around Kuryakin's waist and began striking the bare flesh down his back. Within minutes, the UNCLE agent's head pitched forward, blessedly unconscious.

* * * * *

Gretchen took a deep breath before opening the door to the main office. Internally, she was a mass of nerves, now realizing why she never originally applied for the position of Field Agent. She definitely did not have the stomach for this kind of work. People like Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo thrive by living on the edge; Gretchen preferred the relative normalcy of a lab. At least she would not have to see friends with torn and battered bodies hanging before her.

"And how is Mr. Kuryakin doing?" Josef Chalkler asked without looking up from his report.

She breezed past him, mumbling under breath that he ‘owed' her. To disguise her rage, Gretchen sat down at her desk and busied herself in the payroll.

"Fraulein Fiedler...what was Kuryakin's condition?" her boss asked again.

"Well," she started, looking upward as if deciding upon an estimation. "...at this rate, I wouldn't give him past tomorrow night."

Chalkler raised his eyebrows.

"Oh?"  
  
From the office window, Chalkler watched a disgruntled Franz Kaufmann leave the cooler, slamming the door behind him. He took his walkie-talkie, contacted his disciplinarian and asked him to come to the office.

Kaufmann entered, slamming this door behind him.

"You wanted to see me?" he snapped, casting an icy glance towards Gretchen.

"What seems to be the problem, Franz?"

Before speaking, Kaufmann looked at Gretchen once more, his glare chilling her to the toes.

"Fraulein Fiedler is now an officer?" Kaufmann growled, banging his fist on Chalkler's desk. "She has the authority to override my orders?"

"I overrode your orders, Franz. I sent Fraulein Fiedler out to check on Kuryakin."

"He was not to be removed from the cell! I did not want him to see the light of day." Kaufmann was now roaring with anger.

"Then blame me, Franz. I gave the guards the order to do as she requested."

"He's out cold! He was fine until she stuck her nose it my business! She's going too far!" the disciplinarian hissed. "Perhaps you're just too blind to see it. "

Chalkler smiled. "I doubt that. Fraulein Fiedler does not have a compassionate bone in her body...am I correct, Fraulein?"

"I have one or two," Gretchen mumbled, still engrossed in the payroll checks.

"She had the guards hose down the cooler and air it out," Kaufmann continued.

"Housecleaning?" Chalkler asked Gretchen.

"It was toxic in there. I couldn't breathe," she defended.

Franz swiftly moved to her desk. "For chrissake, woman, this isn't The Waldorf Astoria! I personally don't care if he can eat off the floor. We have him chained in the cooler to keep him as _UN_ comfortable as possible."

Gretchen looked up at the utter rage in his eyes. For a fleeting moment she wondered if he would actually strike her. Her gaze never wavered.

"Then consider what I just did as damage control, Herr Kaufmann. Like I told Josef when Solo was our guest, I'm basically covering your asses. Both of you are so completely wrapped up in getting him to talk that you can't see the big picture. He can tolerate just so much before he'll die. And like I told Josef before, if you prefer, I'll leave you gentlemen to your own devices and let you deal with the consequences yourselves."

It was an unusual sight for Franz Kaufmann to be at a loss for words. On one hand he realized that Gretchen was completely justified in her actions, but on a more visceral level, he wanted to make life as intolerable as possible for the UNCLE agent.

"I tend to agree with Fraulein Fiedler, Franz," Chalkler interjected. He smiled. "It saved my hide once or twice. So consider this a directive from me."

Before leaving the office, Kaufmann warned Gretchen not to get in his way.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Herr Kaufmann."

Josef picked up his medical bag and left the office with his disciplinarian. Through the window, Gretchen could see Kaufmann gesticulating as he ranted and raved over her involvement.

"...and I'm pissed as hell that you sided with her!" the disciplinarian shrieked, his pace quickening as his arms swung wildly.

"She has a point. If Kuryakin dies, we're going to be in deep shit. She's too damn sensible. It annoys me too."


	6. Chapter 6

They departed company before reaching the door to the cooler. The two guards who maintained their positions saluted Chalkler as he approached. Josef unlocked the outer door to the cell, and before going inside, steeled himself against the heat and stench he presumed would emanate from the room.

His supposition was correct, and the air from within hit him like a wall of bricks when he entered.

In the center of the room, Kuryakin was still hanging from the ceiling. Kaufmann had left the agent suspended, hoping he'd feel the pain through his unconscious state. Illya was completely motionless, breathing in short, shallow gulps. His heartbeat was barely detectable, his skin was ashen and clammy.

Chalkler called for the guards' assistance in getting Illya down from the chain. Once released from the wrist and ankle manacles, they carried him to the mattress and re-tethered him to the wall. The agent's blood pressure was checked - dangerously low, then his temperature - dangerously high.

Once he was secured, Chalkler opened the electrical controls' box and pressed a large button. With his touch, gears whirred and creaked, and the walls trembled slightly, followed by the ceiling rising up several feet from its contact points. After the ceiling raised to its limit, Chalkler pressed another button. A compressor started up, forcing a circular flow of cool air into the room. The hotter, stagnant air rose to the ceiling and was pushed out by the cooler, fresher air. In less than five minutes, the temperature within the room dropped twenty degrees, making the environs physically comfortable.

The guard watched in amazement, unaware that the cell had the equipment to activate a cooling system.

"You learn something new every day," Chalkler philosophized to his underling.  
  
The commandant stayed in the cooler a half hour more, observing Kuryakin's condition until his temperature dropped to a more normal level. _Damn it Gretchen - why do you always have to be right?_

"What took you so long?" Gretchen asked when Chalkler returned to the main office. Her calm, unaffected exterior masked the anxiety burning a hole in her gut.

"He needed a little additional assistance," Chalkler sighed, dropping his medical bag on the desk.

Josef tried to involve himself in finishing his report, getting immersed in anything except Illya Kuryakin. In reality, he wanted to escape...leave the compound for the evening and get the hell away. Get drunk. Get laid. He hated the feeling of being in limbo, not able to accomplish his goal of gleaning information from the UNCLE agent, yet having to back off his customary treatment of prisoners in fear of killing him in the process.

Not having Erich Von Koeinghoffer's council did not help. Any major decisions effecting the status of Kuryakin's life were definitely not in his hands.

_Maybe I'm hungry..._

"It's after 6, Gretchen. I'm hungry. Care to join me for a bite?"

She smiled wickedly. "And just what to you plan to bite?" she snickered.

Josef was taken aback by her remark. "Anything that comes my way."  
  
The last thing Gretchen wanted to do at this exact moment was eat. To kill time, she accepted his invitation and they headed to the Officers' dining room. A short diversion from worrying about her comrade.

"You really packed it away," Chalkler chuckled as they left the dining room.

 _Nervous eating,_ she thought. _Bad habit of mine._ "I haven't eaten since..." Gretchen indiscreetly checked her watch. 7:15. "... breakfast." _He'll be unconscious for at least 45 minutes more._

  
Through the office window, Gretchen watched Franz Kaufmann rushing towards the cooler an hour later, silhouetted against the orange and pink evening sky. He must have instructed the guards to contact him the moment Illya woke up.

The disciplinarian stopped in his tracks as he entered the cell.

"Why the hell does he do this?" Kaufmann muttered, turning off the air cooling system and lowering the cell's roof to its normal position. "It must be that bitch's influence."

Illya Kuryakin shifted his body in search of a more comfortable position. His mind was in a state of post-drugging fog and disorientation, and quickly...too quickly, the pain was returning. He was thankful, at least, that someone had the decency to lay him on the mattress.

Through his murkiness, the agent saw Kaufmann approaching. He was holding something in his hands... _What is it?...oh, my clothes_ , Kuryakin thought as the bundle of clothes was thrown down at him.

Kaufmann unlocked Illya's shackles and pulled him to his feet, and then ordered him to get dressed. The agent's movements were painful and slow, and his lack of coordination made the process of getting dressed difficult. The welts and bruises on his legs burned and ached as he tried maneuvering his swollen body into the pants. He managed to get one leg into the jeans, then the other, but pulling them up the remainder of the way was far too excruciating.

Impatiently, Kaufmann yanked the waistband up the rest of the way. Illya groaned as the fabric scraped over the sore skin on his hips and buttocks. The agent fumbled with the zipper, mentally ordering his fingers to complete the simple task of fastening the jeans.

Harsh hands gripped Illya's upper arms, digging into the sore flesh and muscles as if that act alone would activate the agent's fingers. Finally, his jeans were closed.

The pressure of the waistband across his sides and raw back hurt tremendously. By now, the pain was at its peak, no longer dulled by his post-unconscious fog. The room was heating up as well. Kuryakin looked up at the bright overhead lights, generating more unwanted heat into the cell, knowing very shortly his body temperature would begin to rise once more.

"Here," Kaufmann's nasty voice growled, "...put on your shirt as well."

Illya's T-shirt was thrust into his shaking hands. Slowly, he slipped his arms through the armholes and brought the shirt over his head. Bringing the shirt down over his injured flesh brought tears to his eyes.

Before the shirt was completely lowered, Kaufmann dragged him off the mattress and to the center of the concrete floor.

Kaufmann pressed his foot into the back of Illya's knees, forcing him down. Quickly and effortlessly, the agent's wrists were cuffed behind his back and his ankles were chained to the floor.

"You've been able to maintain your silence so far," Kaufmann sneered, "...but after I'm finished with you tonight, you'll beg me to let you spill your guts."

Kaufmann took a hard rectangular box from the shirt pocket of his uniform. He opened the box and brought out a vial filled with a transparent green fluid. Illya knew a syringe would follow.

"I doubt you have ever experienced this before." The disciplinarian held the glass close to Kuryakin's face. "A friend of mine who whips up diabolical elixirs in our Thrush lab is in the process of developing this one. Unfortunately, he has never tested it on a human subject before. Only lab rats." Kaufmann laughed. "I guess that qualifies you, then."

Illya remained silent looking at the vial, trying to determine what was inside.

"This works in complete opposition to an anesthetic. This will heighten your senses to an unbearable level." He paused dramatically. "The pain you now feel is the mere tip of the iceberg, Kuryakin."

Tremors went through Illya's body in anticipation of the injection. Throughout his career with UNCLE, Thrush had forced unwanted drugs into his veins on more occasions than he cared to remember, one worse than the next. He was not looking forward to being the recipient of this elixir.

Franz Kaufmann removed the syringe from the box and inserted its needle into the vial. He pulled back on the plunger, filling the syringe half way before stopping. The disciplinarian cracked a small smile and shrugged before filling the syringe entirely.

 _He doesn't even know how much to administer_ , Kuryakin realized, closing his eyes in despair.

"This might be a good time to break your silence, Kuryakin. My friend could give me no true assurances that this would be effective...but on the other hand, he has no data on how detrimental this will be to your health and well being."

Kaufmann waved the syringe menacingly as he waited for a response from Illya. None came forth. The Thrush officer squatted down alongside the UNCLE agent and took a firm grasp of his arm before injecting the contents of the syringe into Kuryakin's upper arm.  
  
Moments after the injection, Illya was left alone in the cell, lights blazing above him. At first, there were no unusual sensations or floods of pain. Kuryakin even entertained the notion that the drug was a dud, useless.

Then slowly, minute by minute, degree by degree, the pain increased.

Illya's clothing began to compress and chafe his injured skin. Skin, muscles, tendons began to feel the brunt of the drug as his sensitivity heightened. The pain on his wounded body increased to the point where abrasions felt like the skin had been torn off his hide. Small cuts felt like knife wounds, still burning from the dirt and sweat invading the unwanted openings in his skin. Bruises ached worse than before.

Soon, the weight of his own body forced his bones to virtually grind his flesh into concrete. As the moments ticked away, changing positions became unbearably difficult. The abrasive surface of the concrete dug into every inch of skin it contacted, worsening as time passed.

As the pain intensified, so do Illya's sensitivity to light and sound. The blaring overhead lights bore holes though his closed eyelids, offering him no respite from its illumination. Fortunately, the room was silent.

Or, so he thought. The lights on the ceiling created an almost inaudible hum, but as the drug invaded Illya's body further, the hum turned into a deafening drone like turbine engines running at full speed.

Then he heard the cries begin. At first, it was muted, stifled, but as the evening progressed, the volume increased into screams deep from within the gut. The sound soon drowned out the turbines and a short while later, Illya Kuryakin realized that they were coming from him.

The pain became unbearable. There was no break, no reprieve from the waves of agony which washed over him in increasingly degrees, worsening with each passing minute. Illya could not move one iota without bringing on more distress, nor could he block out the blinding lights from above or the sounds of his own screaming.

A bolt of pain ran up his side, as if someone struck him with a sledgehammer. Illya opened his eyes at the sensation, gasping for breath. A young Thrush guard stood above him, nudging him with the toe of his boot. The sledgehammer.

Stefan Duboff squatted down next to Kuryakin and placed his hand on the UNCLE agent's forehead. Illya started to pull his head away, but the concrete tore at his cheek, feeling as through the flesh was being ripped off his face. Stefan spoke quietly; Illya winced at the booming voice coming from this young man. Duboff's words made no sense and became mere a garbled mass of sounds. Illya had no idea who this man was, or why he was hurting him.

The young guard continued talking, trying to quiet the UNCLE agent. The screams resonated through the door, making both Duboff and Nowitzski, the other guard on duty, uneasy.

Their orders from Franz Kaufmann had been explicit: Do not let Kuryakin out of the cooler, and in no way assist him. They were both given rudimentary details of the drugging with instructions to let it run its course. But their immediate bosses were now gone. After starting their tour of guard duty, the young pair watched Kaufmann and Chalkler get into a car and leave for the evening. Still relatively unhardened by Thrush, the pair of young guards had consciences and empathized with Kuryakin.

While Nowitzski waited outside, Duboff went in to check on their captive. He was upset by the agonizing cries coming from their former comrade. Nothing he could say or do diminished Kuryakin's agony, and he realized he was in fact distressing him more. When Illya was composed enough to speak, it was in Russian, not German.

To Duboff, it sounded like gibberish and he was unable to understand a word being said.

The clock passed 10 pm by the time Duboff caved in and knocked on Gretchen's apartment door. He smiled uncomfortably when she unlocked the door, dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and cut-off jeans.

"Ja?" she asked impatiently. "What do you want?"

"Bitte," he nervously started, "...we need your help."

"What's wrong?"

"Illya Kuryakin is...uh, Herr Kaufmann, uh..."

"For chrissake, Herr Duboff, I'm exhausted. What the hell do you want?"

Gretchen hoped her impatient demeanor was convincingly masking her deep rooted concern.

"Herr Kaufmann drugged him and I think Kuryakin is going to die," the young guard nervously blurted.

"Why are you bothering me with this? This is something for Herr Chalkler to handle."

"He and Herr Kaufmann went out for the night."

Gretchen moved into her living room and picked up her medical bag, then followed Duboff to the cooler.

"What type of drug did he use?" Gretchen questioned as they ran to the cooler.

"I don't know. He didn't say. But Kuryakin's in a lot of pain...I think he's speaking Russian. I don't understand Russian."  
  
Nowitzski opened the door as they neared, allowing the sounds of Illya's agony escape into the night air. Bile rose in Gretchen's throat; never in her life had she heard a human voice create such a heartwrenching sound.

"How long has he been like this?" she snapped, waiting for the inner cell door to be unlocked.

"Over an hour," Nowitzski replied.

Gretchen knelt down in next to Illya, quietly calling his name.

His eyes squinted against the brightness, trying to see who was calling him.

"Illya," she repeated.

Illya closed his eyes.

"Look at me," she softly spoke in Russian.

Briefly, the cries subsided, but the slight body shuddered and trembled in its wake.

"What's your name?" she asked.

Between gasps for breath, the agent spoke his name.

"Illya who? What's your family name?"

"Kuryakin," he answered, still gulping for air.

"Do you know who I am?" Gretchen asked, still trying to determine how cognizant he was at the moment.

The Russian agent looked at her through squinted eyes and shook his head ‘no'. The simple act of moving slightly brought on another tidal wave of pain, and the agonizing cries started again.

"Shhh. Shhh," the soft voice continued. "Illya, I want to help you, but first I need to see how badly hurt you are. I'm going to touch you a little, all right?"

"Nyet!" he hissed. "Do not touch me!"

Disregarding his comment, Gretchen felt the pulse in his neck. His heart rate was dangerously high at 150 beats per minute. She assumed it had been like this for the past hour or longer. She then removed her blood pressure cuff from the medical bag and unwrapped it.

"Illya, this is going to hurt your arm for a few minutes," she explained as she wrapped the cuff around his upper arm.

He tried to wriggle himself out of the cuff, but she closed the hooks and began squeezing the bulb despite his efforts.

"You're going to feel this cuff squeezing your arm," she explained in a quiet voice. "It will get very tight, but I need to see how high your blood pressure is."

Gretchen squeezed the bulb while the cuff inflated, causing Illya's body to twitch with the pain. In his native tongue, he began begging her to stop, pleading with her to put an end to his agony.

The cuff was deflated and removed after the reading. 240/110.

"Unlock his handcuffs and ankle chains," she finally ordered the two young guards.

Illya's limp arms stayed in place even after the shackles were removed. He was too weak to move them to a more comfortable position in the front of his body, perhaps to even pillow his head.

She did not immediate know how to handle this. Gretchen knew she needed to alleviate his distress before his heart could no longer handle it. On the other hand, not knowing what Kaufmann had injected into his body, she was unable to give him any medications or painkillers in fear of contraindications. Illya needed to be removed from the cell and taken into the infirmary, but if he stood up, his heart rate and blood pressure would shoot up even higher. He was in too much pain to be carried.

"Don't touch him!" Gretchen finally ordered Nowitzski and Duboff before standing up and running out the door.

Several minutes later she returned with a tubular green canister outfitted with a hose and a half face mask. Gretchen immediately placed the mask over Illya's nose and mouth, and turned a valve alongside the hose. The hiss of gas sounded. Illya weakly struggled to free himself of the mask, but within a few seconds, his body trembled less and the cries subsided, until finally he was rendered completely still.

The gas was turned off. Gretchen expected the guards to assist her in carrying Kuryakin into the infirmary but neither of them moved. She abruptly looked up.

"Well?"

Duboff and Nowitzski looked at each other. They had already disobeyed Franz Kaufmann's direct orders and they did not want to bury themselves deeper into trouble by bringing his lifeless body in the main building for medical attention.

"Are you two for real?" Gretchen snarled, casting icy glares to the young men. Her arms slid under Illya's armpits, then wrapped around his chest as she raised him into a sitting position. His head fell back against her shoulder. "Never start a job you don't plan to finish!" she muttered under her breath.

Gretchen rearranged herself so she squatted behind the unconscious man, arms still wrapped around his chest, and slowly stood, raising up the UNCLE agent along with her.

If necessary, she would drag him into the infirmary by herself. As Gretchen was about the leave the inner part of the cell, Nowitzski relented and picked up Illya's legs. Duboff followed his lead and relieved Gretchen of his torso. She packed up her medical bag and placed the canister of gas under her arm before leaving the building.  
  
Nowitzski and Duboff lifted Illya on to the examining table. Gretchen immediately began undressing him, hardly noticing that the two guards were still present.

"Do you need help, Fraulein?" Nowitzski asked moments later.

"Only if you want to," she replied without looking up. "You two have risked Herr Kaufmann's retribution helping me. I would definitely understand if you wanted to leave."

"You can handle this yourself?" Duboff chimed in, hoping she would decline Nowitzski's offer of assistance. Neither he nor his partner wanted to admit that they were shaken to the core by the effects of Kaufmann's experimental drug.

Gretchen finally looked up and smiled. "I've handled bigger men than this by myself. Go. If I need help, I'll come knocking on your door."

They nodded in exhaustion and left without another word.  
  
Shortly after Gretchen removed Illya's jeans, he began stirring. The effects of the gas were wearing off sooner than she had anticipated. Another dose of gas returned him to blackness, giving Gretchen ample time to work on him.

When Illya finally woke, he was lying face down on a soft mattress, covered with a thin, lightweight blanket. The painful sensations were dull at first, bearable. They increased gradually, making him more and more uneasy. He was unable to think straight. His surroundings were strange and made no sense. Very little light illuminated the room, making it slightly more palatable for him to open his eyes. Something was wrong with his left arm. A sharp pain stabbed his forearm. He tugged at it, but it would not move.

Kuryakin turned his head to the left and looked down his shoulder, seeing the contact point where tubes of the intravenous line entered his body. Looking up, he saw the plastic bottle of fluid, uncertain what it was and why it was there.

Again, he tried pulling his arm away. As before, it would not budge. He was in restraints; not sharp like handcuffs, but restraints nevertheless. Agitated, he started becoming uneasy and moved on the mattress restlessly. The more friction created by his movement, the more agitated he became. He moaned loudly, followed by several more as the gas continued to wear off.

A quiet voice was beginning to seep into his consciousness. Garbled words evolved into those he could understand in Russian, words encouraging him to stay still and calm down. Then he felt someone touch him. He turned his head to the right then tried to pull away, assuming that whoever had their hands on him meant to hurt him like before.

"Shhh, Illya," the soothing voice cooed. "I'll help you to feel better, but you need to work with me."

Illya winced at the sound of her voice. His hypersensitivity perceived the voice as shouting. Sensing that, Gretchen lowered her voice even more.

"Illya, do you know who I am?" she asked again in Russian.

"Nyet," a coarse voice rasped through gasping breaths.

"Do you know where you are?"

He slowly shook his head. The moaning continued as the pain worsened.

Illya shifted his weight again to find a less painful position. Every fiber of the sheet scraped his skin, feeling as raw as it did on the concrete, but he felt less constricted.

Pains rumbled through his belly, amplified to the sensation of his guts being wrung out like a wet towel. Illya rolled on his left side and brought his knees to his chest to fill in the void. His right arm wrapped around his thighs and shins, feeling skin rather than cloth.

"Would you like me to help you?" the Russian voice asked.

Illya closed his eyes and nodded. "So much pain."

Pressure on the mattress caused it to move under Illya's chest. He opened his eyes to see Gretchen close to him.

"I am going to put my arm around you and hold you closer to me Illya," she whispered. "Once you're settled, you will start feeling better."

Gretchen's voice was soft and comforting, almost mesmerizing. Illya struggled against her while she placed her right arm under his neck. She pulled herself nearer to him and rolled his head below her shoulder to make him more comfortable. Kuryakin's free arm reached across her midsection and held on for dear life.

"Water," he said softly, feebly.

"I'm afraid to give you water, but I have ice chips," she quietly said, placing a chip between his lips.

The icy cold sensation was unpleasant, but as the ice melted and moistened his parched mouth and throat, he asked for more.

"Listen to my breathing and try to breathe along with me," Gretchen instructed in a hypnotic, low voice. "Control your breathing. Take slow, long, deep breaths."

For short periods of time, Illya was able to relax, minimizing his pain. Then a slight movement, or an painful spasm, or a memory would disrupt him. Several times his right hand grasped and clawed at the closest thing to it, trying to alleviate the spikes in his level of pain. Gretchen tried not to react when the agents' fingernails dug deep into the flesh on her side.

The shaking and moans continued throughout the night. Illya pulled at his restraints, cursing his discomfort in Russian. He saw no benefit to the sharp object piercing his inner arm with its knife-like pain and tried on several occasions to yank it out. Each time he was thwarted by Gretchen, who firmly held his free arm against her own body.

The hypnotic talking continued. After several drawbacks, she was able to calm Illya into a trance-like sleep. They breathed in unison, Illya mirroring her rhythm. Even the sound of her heartbeat relaxed him. A short while later he fell asleep with his head still buried in her armpit. Occasional moans and whimpers interrupted the even rhythm of their breathing. Tremors and spasms woke him periodically, but Gretchen's steady, mesmerizing voice lulled him back to sleep.

Gretchen forced herself to stay awake all night in fear that Josef Chalkler or Franz Kaufmann or one of the guards would come into the infirmary and see her cradling Illya against her body. Kaufmann would have a field day with that, only confirming his suspicions of collusion.

The symptoms lessened in intensity as the drug began to wear off. Slightly before dawn he woke, hungry, thirsty and generally irritable. Wincing as his senses awakened, the UNCLE agent rolled away from Gretchen. He brought his knees to his chest and rocked slightly to alleviate the hunger pangs.

"Are you feeling a little better?" Gretchen asked softly in Russian, not sure how much sensitivity to sound still remained. She did a rudimentary check of his vital signs. All had improved drastically since the drug's effects began wearing off.

Illya tried rolling over on to his back, but the wrist restraint hindered him.

"Just a little," he responded, fidgeting with the restraint's buckle. His fingers were less than nimble. "I didn't know you spoke Russian."

"One of my many talents," she chuckled, assisting him with the buckle. "There. Free at last." She paused a moment. "Tell me how you feel?"

With difficulty, Illya turned on to his back. By his demeanor, she understood how uncomfortable he actually was. His breathing became rapid once more and changed into gulps of air with his movement. Beads of sweat began covering his body despite the cool air of the infirmary. Although he realized that Gretchen was trying to help, he tried warding off her touches as she tried to help him.

"Positively horrible."

He lay still for a few minutes, composing himself as he tried to reconstruct the last several hours. Nothing. Nada. Totally blank.

"Are you still hypersensitive?"

Kuryakin closed his eyes and slowly nodded. "What did the drug do to me?"

"Tell me what you remember first."

He thought for a moment, trying to reconstruct the scenario in the cooler.

"Kaufmann told me that a friend of his developed this drug...sort of an anti-anesthetic which would increase the pain I was already feeling. The bastard didn't even know how much to administer." Illya stopped as tremors tore through his body. "The last thing I remember," he continued, "...was my own pain worsening. Then I woke up in here."

"You don't remember anything else?"

"No...nothing at all." Illya paused again. "Did you stay with me all night?"

"Yes. You were pretty uncomfortable," she smiled. "Perhaps it's for the better that you have no recollection of last night."

"That bad?" He rubbed his belly. "I'm very hungry."

"I'll get you something light."

Gretchen started to walk away, but Illya grasped her wrist before she was out of reach. She blushed a little, anticipating a warm, heartfelt ‘thank you'.

"Could you get my clothes?" Kuryakin asked.  
  
Before leaving to get Illya's breakfast, Gretchen removed the IV tubing so he could dress without disturbing it, leaving the shunt in place for when she returned.

She returned several minutes later with a tray of warm soup, bread, water, and diluted orange juice. The IV line was reattached before Illya began eating.

Illya's hands still shook. Water, juice, soup did not always land in his mouth. The Russian agent cursed his inability to control the tremors, hoping the effects of the drug would soon subside.

Gretchen's concern was more deeply rooted. They were dealing with an unknown substance and the lack of information infuriated her. The best she could have done under the circumstances was to hydrate him, hoping to flush the drug out of his system at a faster rate, and keep him comfortable as possible. Gretchen was concerned that he might sustained neurological damage from this untested drug. While Illya was still under the influence of the gas, she had drawn several vials of his blood for future study and stored them in her refrigerator.

Fraulein Fiedler sat in a chair beside the hospital bed reading a magazine when she heard Josef Chalkler walk through the main office door a short while later. Illya had fallen back to sleep, this time on his own volition. When she heard the door open, she immediately wrapped the restraints around Kuryakin's wrists. He looked up at her disoriented, but understood when he saw the Thrush official enter the room.

Chalkler entered the infirmary, beckoning for Gretchen to talk privately with him outside.

"What is he doing here?" Chalkler hissed. "The guards had instructions to leave him in the cooler."

"Did Franz tell you what he shot Kuryakin up with last night?"

"Of course. It was some type of a truth serum. He said it needed about 12 hours to take effect, so we went out."

Gretchen shook her head. "Did he tell you that it was an experimental drug?...that it causes an extremely dangerous amount of hypersensitivity?...that he had no real idea of how to administer it and no antidote?"

"So?"

Gretchen continued telling her boss about the effects of the drug, only to be interrupted by a furious Franz Kaufmann barging through the door when he discovered the prisoner gone from the cooler.

"This time you've gone too far!" Kaufmann shrieked at the petite blonde woman. He turned towards Chalkler. "Have her credentials been checked? She seems way too sympathetic towards this UNCLE agent."

"And what exactly are you getting at?" Gretchen seethed, meeting him face to face.

"That your compassionate care has gone above and beyond the call of duty, Fraulein Fiedler. My orders were to keep him where I left him."

"He would have been dead by now. Do you have any idea what that drug did to him last night?" Gretchen was now yelling at Chalkler's disciplinarian. "One of the guards you left on duty came to me about his condition. At least he had the common sense to realize how close to death Kuryakin was."

"And that guard will regret his actions, trust me!" Kaufmann hissed.

"As you will when Von Koeinghoffer returns." By now, Gretchen was fishing for an honorable way to end this battle of words. Both combatants were equally stubborn, refusing to back down.

Kaufmann suddenly raised his arm and struck her backhanded across the face. The force of his blow pushed her against a wall, stunning her momentarily. The warm, salty taste of blood spread around her tongue. When she finally looked up, Kaufmann was about to enter the infirmary.

She used the wall as a springboard to propel herself forward and grab Kaufmann's neck. Then she wrapped her other arm around his throat, choking him. To help maintain the hold, her slender legs wrapped around his middle, making it almost impossible for Kaufmann to get her off. A string of curses followed as she hit and clawed at him.

Chalkler intervened, finding humor in the entire scenario. He placed his arms under Gretchen's armpits and pulled back, causing her to release her grip or have her shoulders dislocated. Once she let go, he pivoted her around, shielding her from Kaufmann with his own body. Josef held out the arm closest to Kaufmann to keep a distance, and wrapped his other arm around Gretchen's waist, ordering them both to settle down.

The disciplinarian stopped fighting while Gretchen still continued wriggling in Chalkler's hold. She eventually settled herself down enough to warn him that if he ever laid another hand on her again, she'd make sure he'd live to regret it.

Kaufmann laughed at her and shook his head before entering the infirmary to retrieve Illya Kuryakin. Chalkler joined him. Several moments later they brought the wobbly UNCLE agent through the main office. Kuryakin was having difficulty walking. Chalkler had removed the IV line and placed a small pressure bandage over the point of insertion. His face was once again pale and breathing was labored. Gretchen hoped that her diversion allotted an adequate amount of time for his body to receive a portion of the knock out drug she added to the IV fluid.  
  
A thin line of blood ran down Gretchen's chin. Her lip had begun to swell and the right side of her face was bruising. Josef Chalkler took Gretchen into the infirmary after Kaufmann left with Kuryakin.

"What on earth possessed you to do that?" he asked his nurse, seating her on the examining table.

"Do what. Be more specific," Gretchen mumbled.

"Attack Kaufmann like that."

Her eyes darted upward.

"That bastard hit me!" she growled.

She pulled away as Chalkler felt around her cheek.

"Do you have any idea how deadly that man is?" he asked while looking for lacerations under her lip. "Aah - there it is. Your bicuspid pierced the upper lip."

Gretchen pulled her head away once more.

"Just give me some ice, please...and yes, I know he's a maniac. He still had no business hitting me in the face."

Chalkler brought Gretchen a cup of pale blue liquid and a plastic bag with several ice cubes in it. The liquid smelled like mouthwash.

"Here - rinse with this. It's an oral antiseptic...and it will get that salty taste out of your mouth."

Dutifully, Gretchen rinsed out her mouth and spit the remains of the now purplish liquid back into the cup.

Chalkler wrapped a towel around the ice pack and gently placed it against her cheek. While she sat, the remaining energy she had drained out of her body.

"You were up all night?" Chalkler asked.

She nodded.

Josef helped her off the table and instructed her to go to bed and get some sleep.

Inside her apartment, Gretchen looked at herself in a full length mirror, wincing as she touched the purplish bruise on her cheek. She abandoned the ice pack to strip out of her clothing.

After she removed her shirt, the mirror revealed several hand-shaped bruises which wrapped around her left side, places where Illya had clawed and grabbed the night before. Small red cuts were crusted with dried blood where his fingernails had broken the skin.

A short, lukewarm shower help wash away some of the previous night. Before refilling the ice pack and going to bed, she placed a coded call to Marta, urgently demanding someone come and rescue Illya Kuryakin or she would blow her own cover and do it herself. Marta returned a coded message that someone would rescue him by morning.

* * * * *

Illya's hypersensitivity had subsided, but the half-life of the drug refused to relinquish its effects. The walk back to the cooler proved excruciating for him. The sun's intense light and heat brought on an immediate physical reaction, causing him to slow his pace and fight for every breath he took.

Kaufmann, already angered by his encounter with Gretchen, was in no mood to be crossed. Having no pity for Kuryakin's painful distress, the disciplinarian dragged him into the cooler and forcibly pushed the agent against the concrete wall.

He held the agent up while punching him with his free hand. Illya's legs shortly gave out and he slowly slid to the floor like a limp rag doll.

Kaufmann squatted down in front of him and grabbed a fistful of blond hair.

"Are you ready to talk?" Kaufmann shouted at him.

Illya looked disoriented, almost drunk.

"About what?" Kuryakin's breaths were short and shallow, his chest heaving.

"Why were you sent here?"

The UNCLE agent stared at Kaufmann, not saying a word.

"Perhaps I didn't give you enough of the drug last night. You should be spilling your guts by now. Do I need to give you another dose?" Kaufmann threatened.

"Your drugs won't work on me," Kuryakin said softly. He was lightheaded.

"From what I hear, it worked perfectly well last night. You screamed like a girl for hours."

"I...I..don't, uh, re..remember last night," he stammered.

"And I don't believe you!" Kaufmann growled. "Get up!"

Illya tried, but he was too weak to stand.

The disciplinarian brought Kuryakin to his feet about ten seconds before his body once again slumped, unconscious.


	7. Chapter 7

A knock on the bedroom door woke Gretchen out of a deep, sound sleep. Her eyes opened a little, looking at the shadows the sunlight cast through the blinds of her windows. The shadows seemed unusual. Morning sun comes from the other side of the building, never casting shadows in the bedroom. Why then...

Another knock and the familiar voice of Josef roused her further. She turned her head to look at the clock, and as her cheek brushed against the pillow, the dull pain reminded her why she was in bed.

"Ja...ja...come in," she finally responded, still not completely awake.

Chalkler walked into her bedroom, something she was unaccustomed to seeing. Her living area was generally off limits to him and other Thrush men, and he respected her need for privacy. When she joined him at the prison compound, he requested a copy of her key for emergencies.

He sat on the edge of her bed. Gretchen had curled up inside her blanket, looking like a wrapped mummy. The blanket did very little to disguise the shapely form of the figure which rested inside. He had a sudden urge to stroke her, run his hands over her body.

"I knocked on your front door, but you never answered. It's after 7. I was getting worried about you," he said as he looked over the bruise on her cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"I have a horrible headache," she mumbled, rolling over to face him.

"Have you eaten anything?"

She grumbled something unintelligibly and shook her head "no."

"You must be starving. How about I fix you something to eat."

Gretchen shook her head again, complaining about her headache.

Josef placed his left arm around her shoulders, pulling Gretchen closer until her head was on his lap. His eyebrows raised and he inwardly smiled when he realized she was nude beneath the blanket.

"Do you always sleep in the buff?" he chuckled as he began massaging her temples.

"Only when I'm too lazy to put on pajamas," Gretchen muttered. _What the hell am I doing?_ she asked herself.

Her eyes opened wider and she looked up at Chalkler, who seemed quite contented to continue his massage. She tried sitting up.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked, smiling.

"As a matter of fact, yes. I really don't...uh...think you should be doing this here...uh...in...in my bedroom." She was blushing slightly.

Josef bent over and kissed the top of her head.

"Where else would you recommend doing it then?"

She chuckled at his comment and remained under the influence of his gently, warm fingers a few moments more. Gretchen closed her eyes at the relaxing sensation. It has been a long time since someone comforted her, even if it was a Thrush official. _Besides,_ she thought, _even a shrew needs a little tender loving care once in a while. A shrew...funny they should call me that. I'm really a nice person..._

The sensation of a hand softly moving across her shoulders brought her back to reality. She shifted her weight, trying to move away.

"Relax, Gretchen. Let me take care of you," Josef said, moving his hands across the center of her back.

Gretchen sat up, clutching the blanket around her. The pounding in her head increased with the motion.

She forced a smile. "I appreciate what you're doing, but I don't want to lead you on. You know how I feel about having an intimate relationship with you...or anyone I work closely with."

"Could you refresh my memory?" He looked very boyish at the moment, almost endearing.

"It wouldn't work out, Josef. Both you and I know it. It's too awkward. I'd rather not start in the first place."

"Of course," he sighed, stroking her unbruised cheek with his fingers. She looked so incredibly beautiful sitting in bed, wrapped in her blanket, slightly disheveled. "I understand."

Josef stood up to leave, but turned back around before getting to the door. "The offer's still on if you'd like something to eat."

"Ja - that actually sounds good now."

After a relatively pleasant meal with Josef, Gretchen announced that she felt much better and planned to spend the rest of the night in the office, finishing the paperwork she neglected while getting her sorely needed sleep. Chalkler protested at first, trying to convince her that it could wait until tomorrow. But as he already knew, she was a stubborn woman, and once her mind was made up, there was no chance of changing it.

Throughout the night, Gretchen kept an inconspicuous vigil on the cooler. Franz Kaufmann along with an assortment of guards entered and exited at various intervals. She wanted so desperately to check on Illya herself, but knew that would jeopardize him (and possible her) even more.

* * * * *

Illya heard them before he actually saw Kaufmann and his two guards enter the cooler. They were boisterous, sounding as if they were just returning from a night of binge drinking at a local bar. Kuryakin tried turning his head to see them, but had to stop midway. The effects of last night's drug still brought on feelings of hypersensitivity, followed by nausea.

His pain remained a constant. During the late afternoon and evening, Franz Kaufmann paid short but effective visits to the cooler, each time beating Kuryakin until the signs of impending unconsciousness were apparent. Illya's endurance lessened, but his silence remained. Kaufmann's time with the agent decreased as the evening wore on.

The UNCLE agent lay face down on the concrete floor with his hands bound behind his back. The only parts of the men visible to him were the toes of their boots which stopped a few inches from his face.

Two of the trio squatted down. His assumption was correct...the two men reeked of whiskey and scotch. Despite the alcohol, they were surprisingly nimble. One person grabbed Kuryakin's hair, forcing his head up off the concrete, while the other pulled a burlap sack over it. The Russian tried pulling his head out, but once a cord was tied around his neck, the bag was secured in place.

The laughing continued and evolved into disparaging remarks about the agent.

He felt them unlock his handcuffs and bring his arms around to the front of him, the customary prelude to suspension from the ceiling. One of the trio lifted his shirt and poked fingers deeply into the recent wounds he sustained throughout the evening. The UNCLE agent responded with loud moans and futile attempts to pull away. Hands then squeezed his limbs, targeting the blood-stained patches which seeped through the clothing. Breathing through the coarse burlap made Illya even more lightheaded. He knew it was only a matter of time before he cracked completely...or died.

The motor used to raise the chain grinded into action, lifting his body and stretching it to its fullest while his feet remained shackled to the floor. To his disadvantage, Illya could not even see his attackers' hands raise to strike him, losing the small benefit of steeling himself against an impending blow.

Gretchen watched as a car entered the compound shortly after midnight and immediately drove up to the cooler. The car door opened and an all-too-familiar figure got out of the back seat and walked through the door.  
  
The beating stopped momentarily as Franz Kaufmann looked up to see who had entered the cell. He slipped the small whip under his arm and strode across the floor to great the man at the door. This time he was with Kuryakin by himself, still hoping to crack the agent's stubborn will.

"Well look who it is!" Kaufmann exclaimed, hurrying to Erich Von Koeinghoffer to greet him. "We thought you had forgotten about us."

Von Koeinghoffer chuckled and walked over to the hooded body still twitching and shaking from its chains. He looked over the Russian briefly. Gasps and grunt-like sounds came through the sack. The body shook slightly, obviously too weak to react further. Through the blood stained, torn T-shirt, the Thrush chief saw Kuryakin's ribcage working overtime, fighting to fill his lungs with air. The agent's blue jeans were low on his hips from weight loss and dehydration, and areas of bloody cloth had adhered themselves to his clotting wounds. The thighs and buttocks were swollen.

"Any luck with him?" Von Koeinghoffer asked.

Illya recognized the voice immediately. Images of Napoleon's torture flashed across his mind. The relentless abuse. The blood. The broken ribs. He silently cursed his lack of control when the shaking and labored breathing intensified.

"Not yet, but I'm close," the disciplinarian defended. "I need a little more time."

"Unfortunately, Herr Kaufmann, that I do not have."

Erich Von Koeinghoffer loosened the rope from Illya's neck and removed the burlap sack. Fuzz from the fabric stuck to the beads of sweat on the blond agent's face. Illya shut his eyes and turned his head away from the brightness. Kaufmann roughly turned Illya's face back towards the Thrush chief.

Illya resisted, trying to turn his head away once again. For his actions, the UNCLE agent felt the short whip bite into the flesh behind his thighs. White teeth bared with the first blow, followed by a second one which forced another loud grunt. Von Koeinghoffer raised his hand to Kaufmann, wordlessly ordering him to stop.

"As you can see, I avoided damaging his face," Kaufmann said proudly. "I plan to save that for last."

Von Koeinghoffer absently smiled and nodded before raising Kuryakin's shirt.

"Efficient, as always, I see," the Chief remarked, briefly looking over the body.

Kaufmann stood behind Kuryakin and reached around the front of him, unfastening the snap on the agent's blue jeans. Illya winced, anticipating the pain of having the injured skin literally ripped off his legs while Kaufmann forced the jeans down his body.

"That won't be necessary." Von Koeinghoffer once again held up his hand, ordering his officer to stop. He looked at his watch. "I can tell your caliber of work is up to par, but I'm running late. Kuryakin is going with me for further interrogation."

"Oh? Where?"

The Thrush chief put his hand of Kaufmann's shoulder.

"Sorry, but only I have access to that information at the moment. Even my guards and driver have no idea where we will be taking him."

Von Koeinghoffer directed his attention to Illya. He took out his keys to unlock the handcuffs.

"Can you walk?"

Illya opened his mouth to speak, but he had difficulty forming a simple "yes." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kaufmann raise his hand to strike him again. Instinctively, his head turned away.

The sounds of the whip slicing through the air and meeting skin broke the silence. Illya waited for the burning pain of impact, but Illya never felt it striking his flesh. Instead, the weight of Erich Von Koeinghoffer's body pressed against him, straining the contact points on the wrist and ankle manacles. He caught a brief glimpse of the Chief's painful expression.

It only took seconds for Erich Von Koeinghoffer to compose himself and stand straight. He looked down at the left side of his chest at the blood which began spreading through the thin fabric of his long sleeved cotton shirt. Slowly, he turned around, and after taking a deep breath, called for two of his guards.

Kaufmann was apologizing profusely, trying to explain his actions to his boss.

Two of Von Koeinghoffer's personal henchman were in the cooler seconds later, and ordered to remove the disciplinarian at once.

"I'll deal with you later!" Von Koeinghoffer snapped as Kaufmann was escorted from the cooler.

As soon as the door shut, Von Koeinghoffer clutched his side, doubled over in pain. Seconds later he stopped, then he reached into his right pants' pocket and brought out a capped syringe almost filled to capacity with a clear fluid. Illya watched in silence as the cap was removed.

Illya felt his pulse quickening as Von Koeinghoffer came closer to inject the contents of the syringe into his biceps. The previous night's experience with Thrush's drugs was all too fresh in his mind.

"Illya, I..." Von Koeinghoffer began.

"Your drugs won't work on me," Illya mumbled.

Von Koeinghoffer took a firm hold of Kuryakin's arm and emptied the syringe into aching muscles of his biceps.

"This one will." Von Koeinghoffer said softly in English. Illya never noticed the change.

In less than a minute, the pain dissipated, leaving Kuryakin confused. He managed a chuckle.

"I think you've made a mistake," Illya said in German, closing his eyes.

When Von Koeinghoffer saw the battered body relax, he reached up once again to unlock the handcuffs, keeping eye contact with the Russian.

"It's no mistake, Illya," he started quietly, again in English. "It's me...Napoleon. I'm getting you out of here."

One of Von Koeinghoffer's guards came back in to assist.

"Give me a hand, will ya' Charlie?" Von Koeinghoffer/Napoleon Solo shouted over his shoulder. The American accent seemed authentic, the voice familiar.

Limp, lifeless arms fell to Illya's sides as they were released from the overhead chain. He fell against the man who introduced himself as his partner, still eyeing him suspiciously. To his surprise, he was not dumped on the floor like a sack of potatoes, but rather, laid down carefully while Charlie the Guard unlocked the ankle manacles. At the moment, all he knew was that the pain was gone and his limbs were free. He still had the presence of mind not to fight off this so-called Napoleon and play along with the ruse.

"Illya, can you walk?"

The Russian squinted, hoping to reconcile the conflicted messages his tired brain was receiving. The voice was Napoleon's, but that was all he recognized.

The two men squatted down, hoping to look less intimidating closer to his level.

"Can you?" he repeated.

Absently, Kuryakin nodded, not sure whether or not his legs would support him.

Illya was helped to his feet. Once he stood, the guard picked up the handcuffs and secured the agent's arms behind him. An icy glare cut through the space between him and this would-be Solo.

"It's just for show," Charlie assured him as they began escorting Illya out of the cell.

Profoundly apologetic pleas from Franz Kaufmann showered Von Koeinghoffer as they exited the cooler.

"Later," Von Koeinghoffer threatened, and without stopping, the guards were ordered to lock the disciplinarian inside.

Illya was taken to Von Koeinghoffer's large vehicle. The back door opened and a pair of hands helped bring him inside and unlocked the handcuffs. Two of the three three personal guards quickly got in the front seat, followed by Von Koeinghoffer and his third guard filing in the back. The driver started the engine.

A knock on the window halted their departure.

Gretchen.

"I thought I heard something going on out here," she said, opening the door to personally greet Von Koeinghoffer, with the ulterior motive of snooping around. "We were beginning to get worried about you."

She spoke in German, as did Von Koeinghoffer, confusing Illya even more.

"Duty called, Fraulein," he said, smiling.

Herr Von Koeinghoffer noticed her injured cheek. He pulled her closer to get a better look.

"What happened to your face?"

"I had a serious difference of opinion with Kaufmann. Unfortunately, brute strength won out over grace and charm."

The Thrush chief touched her chin, tilting her face to catch a little of the interior light.

"Can we whisk you away for the rest of the night?" Von Koeinghoffer offered.

Gretchen looked at the passengers suspiciously. Between several burly guards and Von Koeinghoffer sat Illya Kuryakin, uneasy with the situation.

"Oh, hell...why not?" She got into the back of the car and squeezed herself between the two guards. They moved aside, making a little room for her. She smiled at the one to her right. "A girl's got to live dangerously once in a while, eh?"  
  
The interior of the vehicle's rear was roomier than most cars. It had two cushioned bench seats facing each other, which could easily accommodate six large people or up to eight smaller ones. A small refrigerator was outfitted underneath the seat closest to the driver. Low watt interior lights provided illumination while the darkened windows offered privacy.

Kuryakin sat without saying a word. His kept minimal eye contact with Gretchen, not wanting to jeopardize her cover if indeed this was a ruse to lull him into a false sense of security.

"Illya, are you thirsty?" Napoleon asked, breaking the silence.

He nodded, and before the car left the gates of the compound, Illya was taking gulps of cool, refreshing bottled water.

Just minutes later, the Kuryakin placed his hand over his mouth and doubled over.

"Are you all right?" Gretchen asked.

Unable to speak, Illya curtly shook his head.

Napoleon asked his driver to stop and pull over. The guard nearest to the door opened it, giving Illya room to stick his head outside and retch.

For several seconds, it sounded as though Illya had dry heaves. Then, without warning, he bolted out of the vehicle and rolled down the embankment and into the woods. In the gentle light of the moon, Illya made his escape.

Napoleon ran after him, but the woods were so dense, the blond agent virtually disappeared.  
  
Illya ran in silence, never looking back. The freedom from pain gave him an adrenaline rush which provided enough strength and endurance to run to the Pützen Hospital's ‘back door' entrance. Knowing that this portal could only be reached by foot, he took comfort in knowing that those who were unaware of its existence would be hard pressed to find it in daylight, let alone the darkness of night.

The Russian knew the route like the back of his hand. Before starting the assignment, he scouted out the paths during the light of day as well as nighttime, memorizing landmarks which could lead him to safety if necessary.

When he reached the familiar rock formation, he stopped momentarily before entering to make sure he was not being followed. After his rapid breaths and heartbeat settled down, he listened for any signs of pursuit. Only nocturnal sounds of the woods met his ears.

Satisfied he was alone, Illya sat by the rocks and reached his hand between the crevices. He felt for a keypad and pressed a series of numbers, then identified himself.

"Illya Kuryakin here. I need assistance." He shut his eyes, at ease for the first time in several days.

* * * * *

Dr. Reuben Abramson was the first person Illya saw when the rock "opened."

The doctor helped the Russian inside the portal to safety, sitting him against a wall until his associates arrived. A wheelchair, gurney, and box with emergency equipment stood near the door. Dr. Abramson sat the agent in the wheelchair and started tending to Kuryakin, who shook his head and pushed the helping hand away.

"You can deal with this later. I must get to the communication's room immediately," he said adamantly, trying to stand up. "It's urgent." Illya stumbled, awkwardly grabbing on to the doctor's lab coat.

The sound footsteps running indicated that other people were coming to assist them. Two rather large orderlies loomed into view. Without a word, one of them took the handles of the wheelchair and began running back to the hospital with Kuryakin holding on with whitened knuckles.

They linked with the other secret entrance corridors and eventually behind the observation windows which led to the emergency room. There, in plain view, Illya saw Erich Von Koeinghoffer pacing.

Kuryakin asked the orderly to stop so he could watch the interactions. The Thrush chief was arguing with the triage nurse, trying to get into the emergency room's examination area. She refused his entrance. Gretchen was trying to pull him away. The Thrush guards sat at a distance, unobtrusive.

"Take him in custody!" Illya demanded, nodding his head towards Von Koeinghoffer. "And those two other men seated against the wall."

The second orderly picked up a the receiver of a nearby telephone and conveyed Kuryakin's message to security. As the wheelchair was moved forward, security guards entered and discreetly swarmed around Von Koeinghoffer and his two guards.

The corridor led to the hidden examining room which was part of UNCLE's suite. Illya quickly got out of the wheelchair and stumbled towards a door at the end of the room. He pressed a series of buttons on another keypad and the door opened. Without a word, he went inside, holding on to the walls for support.

"Illya Kuryakin, Section Two, Number Two, New York," he announced into a speaker.

A second door opened as its sensors recognized his voice. Inside a small room was a series of computers and monitors, giving him the ability to connect with any UNCLE installation throughout the world. He sat at nearest one, and immediately began typing codes on the keyboard.

Weariness was setting in and his fingers were nonresponsive. After his second try, a warning came on the screen, notifying him that he had only one more attempt at a correct code. He knew that if he failed this third time, the computer system would shut down automatically and the room would fill with a knock-out gas, debilitating him until security officers could remove him.

He shut his eyes to calm himself, and tried the code for the final time. This time he met with success, and he accessed an overseas relay to Mr. Waverly in New York.

Alexander Waverly was literally a sight for sore eyes. Illya felt his body relax once he made contact with his superior. By the expression on the old man's face, the agent realized that he must have looked completely retched. Uncharacteristically, Mr. Waverly seemed to be at a loss for words.

"Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin. Glad to see..."

Illya cut him off, too desperate for information about Napoleon Solo's whereabouts and too utterly exhausted to waste time with unnecessary talk.

Nor did he hear the communication's room door opening behind him.

"A man looking very much like Erich Von Koeinghoffer just rescued me from Thrush. He claimed to be Napoleon Solo. Is Solo in Germany at the moment?"

Mr. Waverly's line of vision elevated from eye contact with Illya to somewhere above his head. A slight smile crossed his face.

"Good job, Mr. Solo. I see the rescue was a success."

Illya looked up at his partner, still unnerved by his appearance despite Mr. Waverly's affirmation that this man was indeed Napoleon Solo.

"What took you so long," Illya sighed, closing his eyes. He leaned his head back against Solo's stomach.

"I had to brush up on my German before taking on this assignment," he mused.

"Hmmm, that explains why your accent was off."

"Huh?" Napoleon grunted.

"Von Koeinghoffer speaks with a Swiss dialect, not Bavarian."

"I'll take that under consideration."

While Illya was contacting Mr. Waverly in New York, Dr. Abramson was assembling his medical team. He too had been given advanced notice that Kuryakin's rescue was scheduled for that night, but not the details. The doctor conferred with Gretchen to get preliminary insight on his condition. She briefed him on Illya's treatment over the past several days and recommended Dr. Holtzman assist as she did with Napoleon.

"Have you had your cheek X-rayed?" the doctor finally asked. He gingerly felt around the purplish bruised area, causing her to flinch and pull away.

"It's only a bruise, Doctor," Gretchen protested. "That much I remember from my medical school days."

Dr. Abramson shook his head. "You're picking up all their bad habits," he muttered.

"I'll be fine. But you might want to check out Napoleon's ribs."  
  
Kuryakin wearily emerged from the communications room and headed straight to the examining area. He held up his arms in surrender.

"I'm all yours," the exhausted agent smiled. He willingly lifted himself on to the examining table.

Reuben Abramson raised his eyebrows, astonished. "What?" he chuckled. "You're not going to make this difficult?"

"Perhaps another time," came the quiet voice now laying down with his eyes closed.

* * * * *

Gretchen was hurrying down the corridor to meet Marta when she saw the scuffle ensue. Von Koeinghoffer was quietly pleading for Marta to settle down. In a flurry of white lab coat and red hair, the Thrush chief was wrestled to the floor. Marta straddling her thighs around the downed man with a gun aimed at his head.

"How the hell did you get access to this area?" she asked harshly, pressing the gun's barrel further into his temple.

He lay on the floor with his hands up, palm outward, still attempting to convince Marta that he was Napoleon Solo.

"That was pretty good, Dr. Holtzman," Gretchen commented. "You didn't break a nail or anything, did you?"

Marta was obviously confused at Gretchen's relaxed demeanor. She looked at Von Koeinghoffer, then at Gretchen and back to Von Koeinghoffer.

"Here, take this," she said, handing Gretchen her gun.

The man laying on the floor shifted his weight, moving slightly to ease the pain in his side.

"Stay still!" Marta ordered.

In seconds the buttons of the bloodied shirt were opened. Once she looked at his chest, she smiled, recognizing her workmanship. She sat back and sighed, shaking her head.

"I am so sorry, Napoleon," she said apologetically.

"We already went over this in the car," Gretchen said. "He makes a pretty convincing Erich Von Koeinghoffer."  
Marta looked at the cut in his side while the shirt was still open. She curled up her nose.

"That must have hurt quite a bit," Marta said, looking at the injury closer. It had re-opened practically the entire scar around the cracked ribs. "Dr. Abramson won't need me for at least an hour. How about I close that for you?"

She looked down at Napoleon. Even through his disguise, Marta could see those warm brown eyes smiling.

The two woman walked Solo to a small examining room.

"You let me drag you to the floor just now, didn't you?" Marta asked, knowing damned well that Solo could have felled her without giving it a second thought.

"I find strong, assertive women very sexy," he replied, smiling sheepishly. "It was rather exciting seeing you in action."

"You're lucky I didn't ask you to drop your pants to ascertain your true identity," the redhead joked, nudging him with her elbow.

The trio reached the exam room. Marta opened the door, motioning for Gretchen and Napoleon to enter with her.

"I think this is my cue to leave," Gretchen announced. "I'll see you two later."

Dr. Abramson was taken off guard by Illya's lack of resistance. In the past, regardless of how battered or injured the stubborn Russian was, he challenged and opposed everything the doctor and his staff recommended. Treating Illya Kuryakin was generally an exasperating experience, an uphill battle.

The medical staff took advantage of the situation, not sure how long this complacency would last. Utterly exhausted, Illya fell into a deep sleep almost immediately. He never felt the doctors poke at him, draw blood, or reposition him repeatedly for X-rays. After their brief preliminary exam, they determined that despite the obvious abuse he endured, his internal organs were virtually untouched and healthy.

The two orderlies who escorted Illya into UNCLE were assigned to bathing him. Throughout most of the ordeal, Illya slept soundly, barely feeling the two burly men scrub dried blood, sweat, and dirt off his battered body. On the few occasions they needed him alert, the blond agent fussed and fidgeted like an overtired child, only to fall back asleep seconds later.

* * * * *

"So this was Alexander Waverly's secret mission for you?" Dr. Holtzman asked once she closed the examining room door.

Solo took off his shirt. The painful slash in his left side was still bleeding slightly.

"When our agents abducted Von Koeinghoffer and his entourage, Mr. Waverly came up with the idea of me impersonating him."

"That's why you didn't shave after the wound healed," Marta said dramatically. "Oh - before you lay down, you need to take off your belt and loosen your waistband."

Solo smiled. "You don't want me to drop my pants?"

"We can discuss that later," she cooed. "Right now, I need to be professional."

The senior officer obliged, then laid down on her table. She helped him roll on to his right side.

Marta filled a syringe with lidocaine to numb the areas around his wound.

"You know, of course, that this is going to sting a little," she warned.

Napoleon didn't even pretend to be stoic; he winced and sucked in air between his teeth as she injected small quantities of the anesthetic around the wound. Once the general area was numbed, she injected more lidocaine directly inside the cut. Solo closed his eyes and turned away.

"Are you feeling any pain?" Marta asked, afraid she hadn't numbed him sufficiently.

"No."

Dr. Holtzman worked silently for another few minutes, making sure she had deadened the entire area. She stood up and selected several surgical instruments, and lay them in a nearby sterile tray.

"How did you get cut?"

Napoleon sighed. "Shielding Illya."

Solo's mood darkened. This was his first down-time since the rescue, the first chance he had to dwell on his partner's condition. Perhaps it was all too close to his own experience of being hung like a side of beef and beaten senseless.  
  
His mind began to wander during the silence as Marta tended to his wound. In the past, both he and Illya had all too often been the victim of Thrush's brutality, but the absolute viscousness of their treatment in the prison compound was beyond the pale. Kaufmann, Von Koeinghoffer, and Chalkler were ruthless, relentless.

During his own stay at the hospital, he silently endured the anguish of post traumatic depression. Solo had masked his demons sufficiently to avoid raising suspicion. The last thing he wanted was to have Alexander Waverly or Dr. Abramson recommend a psychiatric evaluation.

His overt symptoms had been decreased appetite and a general lackluster demeanor. Food was tasteless and offered no appeal. When the tray arrived, he played with the food for a while, pushing it around the plate. A little would be eaten, some would get flushed down the toilet, scraps were left on the plate. The nurse would chart that his food had been consumed.

Tiredness had suffocated him. The first few days of his stay, Dr. Abramson had sedated him heavily, keeping the agent settled so his healing could begin. After a while, Napoleon felt as helpless as he did hanging from the cooler's ceiling. The lack of mobility from his cracked ribs, the pain which lingered, constantly haunting him...  
  
Marta's voice brought him back to the present.

"How are you holding up?" she asked, concerned by his silence.

Napoleon simply nodded.

"You're suddenly very quiet. Is it something I said?"

Solo looked up at her.

"No."

Marta stopped working for a moment and sat down across from him, eye-to-eye.

"What's wrong, Napoleon?" Marta stroked his face.

"Nothing," he answered absently. "I'm just lost in thought."

"Aah, now that could be dangerous!" she remarked jovially. "Nothing worse than a man becoming pensive. Their brain cells go absolutely nuts." She stood up and continued suturing the gash. "Did you know that nine out of ten men short circuit when they're ruminative? Something in the male make-up overloads in the process. Six months ago, the AMA came out with new findings..."

Napoleon finally laughed. "OK, Marta. You made your point."

"So you're back with me now?"

"Yup."

Another suture,

"I'm glad to see you've put back all your weight. You were really getting scrawny there for a while."

Napoleon cast her a glance, surprised his weight would be a concern of hers. He suddenly remembered when his appetite returned. Dinners with Marta.

She continued working.

"I needed to fatten up to resemble Von Koeinghoffer," he said, still trying to fit the pieces together.

He then remembered when his mood elevated. Dinners with Marta.

All this occurred after Alexander Waverly's visit to Germany.

Napoleon gently took her arm and pulled her closer.

"Did Mr. Waverly talk to you?" he asked.

"Yes, on several occasions."

"Specifically about me."

"Well...yes, why do you ask? He was concerned that your recovery was..."

"Slow? Compromised?"

Marta stood up. "Napoleon, what's your point?" Her tone was almost icy.

"What exactly did he ask you to do?"

The doctor put her instruments down on the sterile tray and gave Napoleon her full attention.

"Mr. Waverly asked me to look in on you."

"Special attention?"

"I guess you could call it that."

"Dinners at eight? Gourmet take out? That was all ordered by my boss?"

"Yes," she answered matter-of-factly. "And I even added it to my expense account, just in case you're interested."

Napoleon's blood was boiling. He hated being duped, played for a fool by his superior. Even more by a ravishing redhead who brightened his last week and a half in the hospital.

"I'm such an idiot," he laughed harshly. "I can't believe I fell for it hook, line, and sinker."

Marta ran her fingers through his silver-streaked hair.

"That's all he asked me to do, Napoleon." Her tone softened. "Pay a few visits, bring you real food to eat, keep you company for a little while." She moved closer and kissed him on the cheek and smiled. "The last thing I would do is whore myself for Mr. Waverly, UNCLE, or even you. I genuinely like you."

Napoleon nodded, trying to digest all he's heard.

"The, uh, whirlpool...?"

"No, Mr. Waverly definitely had nothing to do with that."

Solo breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good. I was getting a little worried there."

"I've got to finish sewing you up," she said softly, kissing him fully on the lips. "Your partner needs me. But perhaps later, we could pick up where we left off?"

* * * * *

Marta Holtzman joined the group of doctors and nurses meticulously patching Illya Kuryakin's hide about a half hour after the team started. She was surprised to see that Gretchen had scrubbed up and was assisting.

Illya was pale as a ghost. When Marta arrived, he was laying face down on the operating table covered in a blue surgical sheet. Various parts of his body were exposed while the doctors tended to his injuries. He was heavily sedated, looking like he was only a heartbeat away from becoming a corpse.

Marta was the "closer," the last one standing. As the doctors finished working on Kuryakin, she would step in and close the wounds. Everyone knew her well honed skills as a plastic surgeon would help ensure the best chance of unmarked skin when Illya's wounds finally healed. Only Gretchen remained with Marta after the other doctors finished.

"So, are you thinking of joining me in a medical practice, Dr. Zeinreich? You're doing a pretty good job there," Marta asked as they worked. Her face mask puffed as she spoke.

"Don't count on it, Dr. Holtzman," Gretchen answered.

"Aw, come on, admit it. The excitement in an emergency room gets the adrenaline flowing."

"Marta, my adrenaline flow is fine just the way it is," Gretchen assured her friend. "I prefer the quiet predictability of working in my lab. No blood, no guts laying on the floor..."

"With all those nasty chemicals? You could blow herself up."

Gretchen continued. "Nobody screaming in pain all night long."

"Any idea what was in that drug yet?"

"No," Gretchen responded, shaking her head. "I drew a few vials of his blood at the time. They're hidden in my refrigerator. Something for me to research in my ...uh... spare time."

The clock on the operating room wall read 8:17 when the two women finished working on Kuryakin. A nurse rolled his gurney into a recovery room while the two doctors exited, showered and changed, and went back to Marta's apartment for a few hours' sleep.

* * * * *

There was very little for Napoleon Solo to do at that hour of the morning after Marta finished suturing the gash in his side. She warned him that it would hurt like hell when the lidocaine wore off, and left word with the pharmacy to send up medication in case he needed it.

"You look positively exhausted," she had told him. "Go get some sleep."

Initially, he refused, but a short while later his fatigue and the increasing pain forced him to succumb. He willingly took the pills Marta ordered and found a spare bed in the room where Illya was assigned. The senior agent stripped down to his underwear and got under the covers.

Napoleon slept undisturbed until the squeaky wheels of Illya's gurney being rolled into the room roused him. He instinctively looked at his watch. 10:30...am? pm?

His blond partner was awake, but extremely groggy from the sedation. Napoleon was thankful that Illya was too weak to open his eyes while he spoke. He had no idea how Illya would react to his disguise.

The two orderlies lifted him on to the mattress. They worked in perfect synchronization. One attached the various bags attached to the IV line on the bed's poles while the other helped his partner settle in and get comfortable. A nurse followed, attaching heart monitor leads to his chest, arms and legs, then switched the activated the monitor. Before she left, she checked his vital signs and the work the orderlies had done. Dr. Abramson was next, re-checking the nurse's and orderlies' work.

"How is he?" Napoleon asked, coming closer to his partner's bedside.

"He'll come through with flying colors, I'm sure. Right now, he's very weak," the doctor looked at Solo and smiled, "...but in better condition than when you arrived several weeks ago. No broken bones, no life threatening internal injuries. And so far, I've found no permanent neurological damage from the drug that Franz Kaufmann administered. We're going to keep a close watch on him."

"He'll look forward to that," Solo said dryly.

"Hey, don't be too hard on him. He's been very cooperative so far."

Napoleon smiled. "'So far' is only temporary."

Before leaving, Dr. Abramson looked at Napoleon's ribs.

"She's good," the doctor said after examining Marta's work. He bid Napoleon a good morning and left the room.  
  
"If you tell a soul I was cooperative, I will personally make your life miserable," Illya muttered, half asleep.

"My lips are sealed," Solo assured him.

"Good."

That was the last Illya spoke before surrendering to the sedative.


	8. Chapter 8

Napoleon slept several more hours until muffled moans awakened him. Without thinking, Solo jumped out of bed to check on his partner.

Illya's anesthetic had begun to wear off and the pain was waking him from his dreamless slumber. While sleeping, he had rolled on to his back and was unable to change to a more comfortable position. The blips on the heart monitor became more frequent and erratic.

"Let me help you," Napoleon offered while he gently tried to turn Illya on his side.

The sensation of being moved increased Kuryakin's level of pain dramatically. With his eyes still closed, he pushed away the hands which tried to help him. Realizing that Illya needed more medication, Solo pressed the call button.

The blue eyes opened as Napoleon reached across the bed. The sound of the heart monitor indicated that Illya was in distress. Solo looked down at his friend, who stared at him wide-eyed, frozen, breathing heavily, obviously terrified. It took only seconds for Napoleon to understand why.

"Illya, I'm Napoleon...not Erich Von Koeinghoffer. You were rescued last..."

Before Solo could finish explaining, Illya lunged for his throat, pulling down bags of IV fluid and ripping off the heart monitor leads in the process. The room was suddenly filled with ominous sounds. Poles came crashing to the floor while the alarm in the heart monitor wailed. Illya began yelling while he attacked Von Koeinghoffer.

The door to his room was thrown open, and two doctors and a nurse came running in with a crash cart. Two more nurses followed. They were surprised to see Kuryakin assaulting Napoleon, striking at him wildly. According to their monitoring station, he had flatlined and was clinically dead.

Napoleon was hesitant to even defend himself, afraid he would increase his partner's pain and stress him further. The doctors bodily pulled the Russian off him before injecting another dose of the pain killer through the IV line. Illya settled down immediately once the drug took effect.

The nurses fussed over Illya, trying to get the medical paraphernalia upright and working again. The Russian never took his eyes off Napoleon, glaring at him suspiciously. The doctors began asking Illya a series of questions, but they remained unheard and unanswered while he focused on the man standing in front of him.

Finally, Illya remembered. Yes, he was rescued the night before by Napoleon Solo, disguised as Von Koeinghoffer. Yes, he was taken to the hospital for treatment.

The Russian closed his eyes and finally relaxed.

"...you hear me?" one of the doctors continued to ask.

Kuryakin nodded, looking up at the physician.

"I'm fine," Illya said weakly. He looked at Solo once more, still minutely suspicious.

* * * * *

After dark, Erich Von Koeinghoffer and company returned to the Pützen prison compound. The large car was parked near the main office. The doors opened and the passengers exited. Gretchen Fiedler looked splendid in her turquoise and white striped sundress. Von Koeinghoffer sported black trousers and a tailor made long sleeved yellow linen shirt to hide the healing scars on his wrists. His personal guards and driver wore their clothes from last night.

Gretchen entered the office first while Von Koeinghoffer chivalrously held the door for her. They were both in good spirits, laughing and talking like old friends. They stopped in their tracks when they saw Josef Chalkler at his desk.

"You're working late tonight, Josef," Von Koeinghoffer remarked.

Chalkler was seething. He had heard the rumors about Von Koeinghoffer coming into the compound during the night, and like a thief in the dark, taking Illya Kuryakin with him. His disciplinarian was in the cooler, awaiting "sentencing" from the Thrush chief for accidentally striking him with the blow intended for Kuryakin. And why on earth would he take the secretary along with him?

"No one else was around to do it," Chalkler responded angrily. He wanted to grill his boss for information, but realized it was not in his best interest. Despite their apparent friendship, Josef knew where to draw the line.

"Hmmm." Von Koeinghoffer's response was flat, indicating that his mind was somewhere else. He placed his hand on Gretchen's shoulder and smiled.

"I'll see you later," he said before leaving.

An awkward silence filled the room once the chief left.  
  
"So," Chalkler nonchalantly began, "you went off with Von Koeinghoffer last night."

Gretchen smiled sheepishly and nodded, her eyes slightly downcast.

"I'm confused, Gretchen. From what Kaufmann told me, he came to take Kuryakin out of here for additional interrogation. Please don't take this the wrong way, but why would he take you along?"

"Do you think I understand his thought process?" Gretchen snorted. "If I could figure out how men think, I'd be worth a fortune!"

"How did you end up going with them?"

"I heard Kaufmann's voice outside so I went to see what was wrong. Erich was putting Illya in the car. He simply asked if I wanted to go along. I had nothing else to do, so I said ‘yes'." Gretchen smiled and shrugged. "That's it."

"Where did he take Kuryakin for this interrogation?"

"I honestly don't know, Josef. His driver dropped me off at an apartment downtown and Erich gave me a set of keys. Then he mentioned something about me taking a bath and he'd join me later. They all drove off with Kuryakin and I sat in a tub of bubbles. Then I went to sleep. End of story."

Gretchen could read Josef like a book. The man was intensely jealous. The proverbial green-eyed monster just took a bite out of his hide and she was enjoying every minute of it.

Josef was hesitant to press further for information about their night together. He was dying to know if they had been intimate, or if Gretchen had fizzled near the finish line.

"Did he make it back to the apartment?" Chalkler fished.

"Ja...sometime near morning. I was still asleep." She paused. Her mood suddenly changed. "Why am I telling you all this?"

Josef held his hands up apologetically. "Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."

Gretchen picked up a few things from her desk and headed towards her apartment.

"By the way, Gretchen, that dress looks great on you. I don't believe I've seen you wear that one before."

She smiled to herself before turning back around.

"To quell your curiosity, Erich took me shopping this afternoon. The rest of my things are in the trunk of his car. I assume he'll bring them in later. Good night, Josef," she said as she left the office.

* * * * *

The disciplinarian had spent the past 24 hours in the cooler. His only visitor had been Josef Chalkler who wanted information about the previous night's events. His secretary was missing, as was his prisoner. No communiqués, messages, or phone calls.

Kaufmann remained untouched until his chief's personal guards entered. In the past, he had very few dealings with Von Koeinghoffer's henchmen; they were elite entities unto themselves, rarely dirtying their hands with the day-to-day business of running a prison. It took him by surprise when the guards entered and began knocking him around.

Then, Erich Von Koeinghoffer entered. The casual demeanor he generally shared with Kaufmann was gone. This powerful man was full of anger and rage.

"You've got some explaining to do, Franz," Von Koeinghoffer began.

Kaufmann tried to look penitent, something he was completely unaccustomed to doing.

"I'm really sorry, Erich. How is the cut in your side?"

"Sore."

"I didn't intend for you to be struck. Kuryakin refused to answer your question and I was trying to put an end to his stubborn streak."

"I asked you to stop beating him moments before, you idiot! How dense can you be?"

Von Koeinghoffer moved in closer to Kaufmann, pounding him with several solid blows. The disciplinarian wrapped his arms around his midsection and doubled over in pain.

"Why the hell did you hit Gretchen?" Von Koeinghoffer growled.

"Is that what you're really pissed about?" Kaufmann snapped back. He slowly stood straight.

"I assume I don't need to ask you again."

Kaufmann took a moment to catch his breath.

"You know Peter Hecht, don't you?..." Kaufmann began.

Napoleon grunted in acknowledgment, not knowing Peter Hecht at all. "Go on."

"He's working on this drug which he claims will break anyone's will. The only problem is that he hasn't tested it on humans yet, just lab rats. After it is administered, the unfortunate subjects needs to be left alone for about 12 hours for it to work. I figured I could try it out on Kuryakin. My only mistake was assigning two of the new men to guard the cooler. They couldn't stand the sounds of his screaming any more and asked Gretchen for help."

"Why go to her? Why not you or Josef."

"We went out for the evening. I didn't see any sense in hanging around here for the 12 hours Kuryakin was supposed to stew. Anyway, when we got back, she had intervened and taken him to the infirmary. That was actually the second time she disobeyed my orders."

"Perhaps the gash in my side is clouding my intelligence, so please explain to me once more why you had to hit her." Von Koeinghoffer's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Gretchen was thwarting the progress I was making with Kuryakin. I'd get him close to cracking, and she would ‘fix' him. I don't need anyone ‘fixing' my prisoners."

The Thrush chief grabbed the collar of Kaufmann's shirt.

"Did it ever occur to you that she may have been following my orders to keep him alive?"

"Why her and not Josef?" he asked, mocking Von Koeinghoffer.

"Because she's the smarter of the two."

"What has gotten in to you, Erich? You and Chalkler act like adolescents around her." Kaufmann paused and suddenly smiled. "You're sleeping with her now, aren't you? That's it, right?"

Von Koeinghoffer released his grip on Kaufmann's shirt and pushed him towards the his guards, nodding once. He then turned around and left.

Josef Chalkler was still at his desk when Von Koeinghoffer returned to the main office, this time balancing several packages and shopping bags. He still refused to ask his boss about their night together, but the inquisitive look on his face let on that he was curious.

"We just picked up a few things this afternoon," Von Koeinghoffer explained, readjusting the packages to open the doorknob to Gretchen's apartment. "Good night, Josef." And Napoleon disappeared behind the door.

* * * * *

Illya Kuryakin passed the next few days in and out of a drug-induced lethargy. His body had been intentionally shut down to heal; the majority of the time he slept dreamlessly. He spent his few waking hours in dulling numbness, virtually existing in a blur of time.

He assumed the medical staff came and tended to his needs and then left silently. No other human being seemed to be in the room. In a rare moment of lucidity, he saw a vase of vibrant wildflowers on his night stand, surrounded by several boxes of candy. _Napoleon? Gretchen?_

After several days, Illya's health had improved sufficiently to become aware of his continual state of limbo. On Friday evening he forced himself to stay awake for one of Dr. Abramson's frequent visits, and demanded he cut back on the sedatives and pain killers.

Heeding Illya's request, the doctor altered the dosages of medications, weaning him off at specific intervals. Slowly, the fuzzy edges surrounding his existence began to clear. Both his mind and appetite sharpened, and the booty of candy left during Napoleon's many visits were a welcome treat.

Sleeping Friday night was difficult. Images of his last four days at the prison compound began to stream back into his consciousness. The chains. The torture. Franz Kaufmann. Franz Kaufmann. Franz Kaufmann....

Illya awoke alone in the hospital room in a cold sweat . His heart was pounding and his chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. He closed his eyes and smiled; the haze had lifted.

**Several days later:**  
 **Wednesday, 13 August**  
  
Cool air swept across Illya's back as the blanket covering him was lifted. For the past several hours, Illya had been curled up in the blanket, sleeping soundly. The sensation caught him off guard, and without thinking, he grabbed the hand disturbing him.

"I didn't mean to wake you, Mr. Kuryakin," a familiar voice apologized.

Illya opened his eyes to see Alexander Waverly standing by his bed. Several seconds later it registered that he still had his hand clamped around his boss' wrist.

"Just taking a look at the damage," his boss said matter-of-factly. He was pleased to see that Kuryakin's reflexes were returning to normal.

"Good morning, sir," Illya mumbled, still somewhat drowsy. "It is morning, isn't it?"

The old man nodded. "How are you feeling?"

The Russian's body was shrouded in bandages; arms, wrists, back and chest, legs. He stretched his limbs, feeling the resistance of injured muscles and the tightness of wounded flesh healing. "At the moment?...Like I've been trampled by wild horses, thank you."

"According to Dr. Abramson you're doing remarkably well. He doesn't find any residual effects of the drug Franz Kaufmann administered and he's even noted that you accepted his treatment willingly."

"Obviously a moment of weakness. What brings you to Germany, sir?"

"I wanted to confer with you and Mr. Solo, along with Dr. Zeinreich this morning," Mr. Waverly said.

"If you plan to destroy the computer, Gretchen can wire and destroy it herself. Von Koeinghoffer conveniently had it installed under her apartment."

Mr. Waverly picked up the phone's receiver and waited for the operator to respond. "Tea, Mr. Kuryakin?" he asked while waiting.

Illya nodded. "And some pastries as well, if you could."

The Russian sat up and brought his legs over the side of the bed. He sat for a short while waiting for the room to stop spinning before he stood. His hand grabbed for the IV pole, the only hospital apparatus still attached to him. This was the first time he had been on his feet since entering the hospital several days before.

Mr. Waverly covertly watched him like a hawk while he finished his phone call.

"Have the doctors given you clearance to be ambulatory?" the old man asked, placing the receiver back on the phone's cradle.

"Absolutely not," Illya replied as he plodded to the bathroom.  
  
A moment later, Mr. Waverly heard the toilet flush. Then the water in the bathroom faucet was turned on, and remained running for several minutes. Finally, Illya emerged, clean shaven and running his tongue over his freshly brushed teeth.

"I feel a little more human now."

Tea and pastries arrived before Napoleon and Gretchen. Mr. Waverly poured a cup for Kuryakin and himself, and presented the tray of sweets for Illya's selection. Not halfway through their cups of tea, the door opened. Illya looked up to see Erich Von Koeinghoffer about to enter.

In the span of a split second, Illya looked over at Mr. Waverly, who was still absorbed in his cup of tea. The Russian thrusted himself off the bed and tackled his unsuspecting boss, knocking him to the ground. As he twisted himself around to face the door, Kuryakin grabbed Waverly's gun from its holster and aimed it at the intruder, trigger finger in place.

Before Illya could shoot off even one round, his arm was pulled upward, lodging the bullet in the threshold above the door rather than in Von Koeinghoffer's chest. A strong arm clamped around his chest to keep him still. In that same split second, Von Koeinghoffer dived to the floor.

Kuryakin tried to wrench out of Waverly's grip, but his boss had too tight a hold on him. He could feel his own heart beating furiously inside his chest.

"Relax, Mr. Kuryakin. No need to waste any more ammunition," Mr. Waverly's calm voice commanded.

As Von Koeinghoffer stood and casually brushed off his suit, Illya realized it was Napoleon. Kuryakin's muscles relaxed and his body slumped back as Mr. Waverly lowered the arm and retrieved his pistol. Napoleon came over and extended a hand to help his partner off his boss.  
  
Dr. Abramson heard the gun shot and ran into the room, followed by a nurse and Gretchen Zeinreich. Illya and Mr. Waverly had gotten back on their feet, and Napoleon was offering his boss a towel to absorb the dark, wet tea stains on his tweed jacket. Alexander looked up at the confused people in the doorway and dismissed them, insisting that everything was back to normal. Gretchen remained though, as per his request.

The Russian agent shook his head and looked at Napoleon. "Your portrayal of Von Koeinghoffer is unnerving."

"I'm actually glad you feel that way, Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly began. "Mr. Solo, Dr. Zeinreich...tea?"

"The impersonation is working extremely well," Napoleon explained, stirring sugar into his tea. "So far, no one suspects."

"Luckily, Mr. Solo, Erich Von Koeinghoffer let no moss grow under his feet," Alexander Waverly added. "Few people were close to him."

Mr. Waverly thumbed through a file. "Gustav Brancato might have been a problem. According to Dr. Zeinreich, the two of you generally had lunch the third Friday of every month. You missed your lunch date and never contacted him. The only reason he stopped by the compound was to see where the hell Von Koeinghoffer was. Unfortunately, he found Mr. Kuryakin instead." The old man looked up. "Do any of you know of other associations of importance to Von Koeinghoffer?"

Gretchen smirked. "Actually, Napoleon and Erich are both rather similar in the social department."

Solo's eyebrows raised, questioning her remark.

"Oh, come on, Napoleon," she chided. "Don't by coy. You two are probably running neck and neck with all the ladies you've...um...'encountered'."

Alexander Waverly cleared his throat to redirect the briefing. "Dr. Zeinreich, have you made any progress on the anti-anesthetic drug given to Mr. Kuryakin?"

"No, sir," she sighed. "I'm still in the process of identifying elements extracted from his blood. It may take a while. I spent most of last two nights in the lab preparing the blood samples."

"This lab?" Illya asked. "How did you manage to slip away from Josef Chalkler without raising suspicion?"

"Erich Von Koeinghoffer and I are getting acquainted, so we've been 'out to dinner' the past two nights," Gretchen explained. "Only dinner is here, in the lab."

Illya looked at Napoleon and raised his eyebrows.

"I assume there's no word on the completed installation of the computer system yet, " Mr. Waverly asked.

Gretchen shook her head.

The old man paused for a few seconds then turned to Illya. "Once you've recuperated, I feel you'd be an integral part of siphoning Thrush information to UNCLE. But you've been through enough so far, and I am reluctant to make that demand on you. If and when you're up for it, you may want to consider rejoining Mr. Solo and Dr. Zeinreich at Pützen Prison.

"As of now, Mr. Solo will immerse himself into the world of Erich Von Koeinghoffer." Mr. Waverly looked his senior agent directly in the eyes. "And please be careful, Napoleon. You're treading on rocky terrain. Dr. Zeinreich, you will remain in your position as Gretchen Fiedler and give Mr. Solo any assistance he needs in his assignment. At this exact time, I'm not sure which direction this affair will take. Much of my decision depends on the computer system and its capabilities...if it ever gets installed."

Mr. Waverly returned his attention to all three agents. "The plan is in flux, but after I receive all the information I need and work out the details, it should work." He looked at his wristwatch. "If there's nothing else, I have a plane to catch." The UNCLE chief picked up his files and headed for the door.

He stopped at the threshold and turned around.

"I believe additional conditioning is in order for all three of you. We don't want you to accidentally dig your own graves. I'll make the appropriate arrangements before I leave."

The door shut silently after Alexander Waverly left.

"Tell me, Napoleon...what happens to you on those nights that you and Gretchen are 'getting acquainted'. "

"Oh...me?" Solo asked innocently. "I'm still recuperating. That lash I shielded you from re-opened the wound in my side, so I've been under Dr. Holtzman's care."

Mr. Waverly, being a man of his word, scheduled the three agents' conditioning sessions the moment he left the briefing. Less than fifteen minutes later, a short, round, bespeckled man in a white lab coat entered Illya's hospital room, clipboard and file folders in hand, reading Napoleon Solo's name from the top of his list.

"That's me," Solo admitted.

"Hello," the rotund little man said, shaking Napoleon's hand. A smile never crossed his face. He was all business. "I'm Dr. Marc LaBan. I'm the psychiatrist Mr. Waverly contacted about your conditioning. You're the first on my list this morning."

After the formalities were done, Dr. LaBan relaxed a little and smiled, looking at Gretchen and Illya.

"Dr. Zeinreich, you'll be after Mr. Solo, followed by Mr. Kuryakin," the doctor informed.

Illya sighed. "Last, but not least."

Dr. LaBan brought his attention to Kuryakin.

"Do you mind being last? Is that a problem?"

 _Oh, shit!_ Illya thought. _Now he'll psychoanalyze everything I say._

"Absolutely not, Dr. LaBan. It's actually the most sensible approach," Illya responded very matter-of-factly.  
Simply nodding, Dr. LaBan turned to leave and motioned for Napoleon to follow.  
  
After the laughter subsided, Gretchen tried to convince Illya that Marc LaBan was actually very, very good at his job.

"He did my conditioning before I started my assignment at the prison compound. Despite his lack of social skills, he's really quite an asset to UNCLE."

"I assume I need to watch everything I say around him," Illya muttered. He disliked shrinks even more than medical doctors, never trusting their motives or agendas.

"I'd be cautious. You might want to keep your deep, dark little secrets to yourself...but he's extremely professional and UNCLE has the highest regard for him."  
  
Gretchen sat down next to Illya, leaning back against the raised head of the bed and stretching her legs out in front of her. The past several days had been long, hectic ones. Day times were spent working as usual, and the evenings, often well into the night, were in the lab, leaving only several hours for sleep.

Illya nodded. "At least I'll stop trying to kill my partner. My last attempt was a little too close for comfort."

"He makes me uncomfortable, too. The resemblance between the two of them is remarkable. They're the same height, same weight and body build, the hair... whoever did Napoleon's hair and beard deserves a pay raise."

In her exhaustion, Gretchen continued rambling on about Von Koeinghoffer.

"I never much liked Erich. Oh, he's charming," she began to explain, "but there was always the condescending side to him. The only reason the egotistical sonovabitch hired me was because I'm blonde. My IQ is probably higher than the sum of his and Chalkler's combined, but does that matter?" Gretchen turned to Illya. "No! Fortunately, UNCLE knew his 'M.O.' when they prepped me for the position. I heard there were quite a few prospective applicants, several more qualified that Gretchen 'Fiedler', but ahhh..." she raised her forefinger dramatically, "I was the only blonde. And my typing is mediocre!"

Her own personal verbal volley continued for a little while longer, until fatigue overwhelmed her. She fell asleep for the remainder of the time until Dr. Marc LaBan returned.

Napoleon's conditioning took the longest. Dr. LaBan had to help him separate the two personas he'd need for the assignment. He didn't want Alexander Waverly's senior agent to be conflicted over his impersonation of the dictatorial Erich Von Koeinghoffer versus his real self. Von Koeinghoffer was a brutal, powerful man who usually left people trembling in his wake. Torture was part of his job, and he almost took pleasure in afflicting the excruciating pain to his subjects, which often resulted in death. He was feared by most people who had the misfortune of coming in contact with him. Napoleon was subliminally given the boundaries of his duties and familiarity with both Illya and Gretchen. Mr. Waverly was right. The last thing he wanted was for his agents to "dig their own graves" by blowing their covers, whether it was accidentally or under duress.

Both Illya and Gretchen was prepared similarly, using the subliminal preventative measures to maintain their covers while in the company of those outside UNCLE's circle. Gretchen had to maintain her caustic, bitchy profile, the one Josef Chalkler and Erich Von Koeinghoffer joked about in private. Illya needed to reconcile himself with Napoleon's appearance as the Thrush chief, yet, show genuine fear of the man when necessary. Marc LaBan prepared Illya to abandon all familiarity with Napoleon and Gretchen if tortured again.

  
Over the following week, the relationship between Gretchen Fiedler and Erich Von Koeinghoffer slowly intensified at the prison compound. Although they made no public displays of affection, Josef Chalkler seethed inside when he saw their subtle changes - a silent glance between them, a smile, a hand touching the other's shoulder. Erich was spending less time as Josef's guest, forgoing the use of Chalkler's spare bedroom for Gretchen's apartment.

Outside the apartment, it was business as usual. Gretchen hurled her verbal barbs and Erich maintained his chauvinistic facade towards her. To the casual observer, nothing had changed.

Inside the apartment...Chalker knew. He stewed and fumed at the thought of them being together, rolling around in bed, fucking. The privileges of rank screwed him once more, leaving him out in the cold. He hated to reconcile himself with the fact that he was jealous. Gretchen, who wanted no part of this petty competition for her affection, is now bedding down with Von Koeinghoffer. Josef hated to lose.

**Tuesday, 19 August**

The week following Alexander Waverly's visit passed surprisingly quickly for Illya Kuryakin. The pain from his injuries had subsided and he no longer required pain killers. His wounds were slowly healing. Each day additional bandages were removed, revealing pink, healthy skin. Dr. Holtzman's care was paying off.

The Russian requested a slew of technical journals relating to computers. He spent much of his time brushing up on the new technology, learning how to break into programs and reformatting them without raising suspicion. His involvement was so deep, he didn't even seem to mind the minor annoyances of the hospital routine.

His voracious appetite returned with a vengeance, and the dietary service gladly provided him with whatever he wanted. Napoleon and Gretchen, sometimes together, but often individually, would visit him, bearing edible offerings.

On several occasions, the spare bed in his room was occupied by one or the other for short periods of sleep. Kuryakin quickly became accustomed to hearing the door open some ungodly hour of the morning and seeing the silhouetted form of either Gretchen or Napoleon come in to sack out for a while.  
  
Great pains had been taken to prepare Napoleon for the role of Erich Von Koeinghoffer. The Thrush chief's persona had been analyzed and taken apart bit by bit so that Napoleon could "become" him. Taking Kuryakin's advice seriously, Solo was coached with his German, focusing on the dialect of someone who spent his formative years in Switzerland. Napoleon spent the time following his own hospital stay learning the affectations and mannerisms unique to Von Koeinghoffer.

To maintain his pretense, Napoleon needed Gretchen's assistance. Erich Von Koeinghoffer and Gretchen Fiedler were to become romantically involved with each other, affording Napoleon the cover of staying in her apartment.

"You're both professionals, so I trust you can assume the roles without imposing on each other," Mr. Waverly had told Napoleon and Gretchen during one of his many teleconferences.

They agreed, Napoleon more readily than Gretchen. Illya smiled inwardly, knowing that his partner would jump into the role as well as her bed with much enthusiasm.

Illya never saw a difference between Napoleon's and Gretchen's behaviorisms since they began working together. Gretchen sequestered herself in the lab at night while Solo kept company with Marta Holtzman when she was available. Kuryakin observed very few sparks flying between his partner and Gretchen. Unlike him.

* * * * *

Towards the end of the week, the computer installation was complete. Von Koeinghoffer was satisfied the system was up and running, and asked the technician who installed the final components to run him through the process of using it.

"Please forgive me, Herr Von Koeinghoffer," the installer started quietly, "but wasn't your training sufficient? We spent many days together going over this system."

"And that was how long ago?" Von Koeinghoffer countered, obviously annoyed.

"Uh...perhaps two months," the installer said, wishing he'd simply kept his mouth shut and agreed to show his boss how to use the computer once more.

"Then refresh my memory." The Thrush chief's words were harsh, cutting.

The technician went through the motions of re-educating Erich Von Koeinghoffer once more.

Before the technical left, Von Koeinghoffer convinced him to connect some of the equipment upstairs in the apartment, saving him the trouble of going to the basement whenever he planned to work.

**Thursday, 21 August**  
  
The plan was under way. Alexander Waverly assembled his three agents one last time before the entire ball was to get rolling. Illya health had returned and the idea of dabbling with highly secretive Thrush data became his "ráison d'être." Despite the unhealed scars, the Russian agent looked surprisingly fit. Gretchen and Napoleon were well ensconced in their roles and so far, no one had challenged Erich Von Koeinghoffer's authority.

Deep inside, Alexander Waverly knew it was too soon for Illya to return to the field. Under normal circumstances, he would have been granted several more weeks' sick leave, but under the present situation, it was imperative for him to return as soon as possible, and Kuryakin agreed willingly.

"I assume," Illya said, "that Thrush programmed their computer with more information than simply their own files. The components I saw were pretty sophisticated and capable of transmitting information worldwide. My hunch is that they also have background information on our agents." He smirked. "Wouldn't it be amusing to alter those files and transmit them?"

Mr. Waverly's eyebrows raised and he silently nodded, mulling over the idea of falsifying information about UNCLE agents to thwart their organization. "Well, gentlemen, the only way we're going to know what this computer can do is when you get your hands on the unit." He turned his attention to Solo. "How comfortable are you with computers?"

"Minimally, Sir." Solo looked at Illya. "But Illya, on the other hand, should be able to figure out one of those babies in no time."

"Do you foresee any problems with working this computer, Mr. Kuryakin?" the old man asked.

"Other than passwords, entry codes, built-in self-destructive mechanisms to keep people like us out?" Illya asked. "None, whatsoever." The Russian stopped talking for a moment, deep in thought. "I will, though, have to be careful with the computer's internal clock and calendar. Each time a file is altered, the date and time of modification is registered. Someone at Thrush Central might take notice of that."

"Dr. Zeinreich, Mr. Solo...is everything set to go on your end?" Waverly asked.

"Yes, sir," Napoleon answered. "I'll drop a few subtle comments about bringing Illya Kuryakin back with me when we return this afternoon."

"The living arrangements have been worked out," Gretchen said, nudging Napoleon with her elbow. "The philandering Erich Von Koeinghoffer has moved in."

Illya's eyebrows raised.

"I'm sure Von Koeinghoffer wouldn't have it any other way," Kuryakin chuckled.

"Hey, this will help protect my cover, Illya!" Napoleon defended. "Gretchen is the only person who can fill in the gaps for me."

Kuryakin wore a sardonic smile. "Of course."

Mr. Waverly cleared his throat to bring everyone's attention back to task.

"Good luck to the three of you," Alexander Waverly said. "If anything starts going wrong, I want you to bail out immediately. No heroics this time. As before, use Dr. Holtzman if you need to get covert information to me. If there are no other concerns," Alexander concluded, looking at his watch, "My flight to New York leaves within the hour."

The UNCLE chief picked up his files and exited the room.

"Does that mean I'm obliged to get you both a housewarming gift?" Illya mused.

* * * * *

Illya Kuryakin walked out of the car assisted by two of Erich Von Koeinghoffer's personal guards the following day. He looked listless, numb. The sparkle was gone from his eyes, and despite the new clothes he wore, the Russian looked ragged and worn.

Josef Chalkler walked over to the car, followed by Franz Kaufmann.

"You don't have his hands cuffed?" Kaufmann hissed, surprised by the Thrush chief's lack of security measures.

"I don't need them. He's harmless," Erich explained. "He's not going anywhere."

Chalkler moved closer to Illya, looking him directly in the eyes. The pale blue eyes appeared empty, as though the cunning brain which once rested behind them had dissipated. He smiled.

"And just what have you done with him?" Chalkler asked, amazed at the change in Kuryakin.

Kaufmann needed to see the agent up close himself, touch the body he so badly damaged less than two weeks ago. The Russian remained still and expressionless as his shirt was pulled from the waistband of his slacks and raised. As Kaufmann began poking at the scars, Illya's breathing quickened and his eyes began darting from Kaufmann to Von Koeinghoffer.

Erich Von Koeinghoffer intervened, motioning for Kaufmann to stop.

"Since when are you worried about me causing an UNCLE agent a little discomfort?" Kaufmann asked, confused by his boss' covetous attitude towards Kuryakin.

The Thrush chief ordered two of his guards to take Illya into the prisoners' quarters. Obediently, Illya turned around with the guards and walked away, never saying a word.

"Gentlemen," Von Koeinghoffer said triumphantly, "I'm Illya Kuryakin's new best friend."

A short meeting was held in the air conditioned comfort of the main office. Josef Chalkler, Franz Kaufmann, and Gretchen Fiedler were in attendance.

"I brought Kuryakin to an old friend of mine, an ex-Nazi living out of the country," Von Koeinghoffer began. "During the war, he headed one of Hitler's propaganda units specializing in interrogation and coercion."

"And who might this ex-Nazi old friend be, Erich?" Kaufmann asked sarcastically.

Von Koeinghoffer smiled. "He chooses to remain anonymous. We do occasional favors for one another and neither of us wants any affiliation with the other."

"What exactly did this friend of yours do?" Chalkler asked. "Kuryakin looks like hell."

"For one thing, he filled me in on one of UNCLE's procedures for sending agents in to the field. He said that before assignments, most of the top agents are, what he called, 'conditioned', or basically brainwashed not to reveal information under duress. Obviously, Kuryakin was conditioned." Von Koeinghoffer looked at Kaufmann. "You could beat him to a pulp and he wouldn't divulge any information."

Kaufmann wasn't impressed. "So how does that change Kuryakin now?"

"Aah," Von Koeinghoffer said dramatically, "my friend has found a key to UNCLE's process, and has re-conditioned Kuryakin to confide to me. Give me all his dark little UNCLE secrets. Like I said, I'm his new best friend."

"That ridiculous!" Kaufmann grumbled.

"Not really," Chalkler interjected. "It actually makes sense. You mean that UNCLE agents will basically shut themselves down when tortured?"

"Yes," Von Koeinghoffer continued. "The only way he'll divulge information is under his own free will. He has been reprogrammed to talk to me freely."

Erich Von Koeinghoffer stood up and aimed his attention directly towards Chalkler and Kaufmann. "Which means, gentlemen, hands off. You are not to harm him in any way. He can go about the daily routine of the prisoners, but no one is permitted to lay a hand on him. My friend warned me that if he is tortured he may shut down again. There is a motherlode of information stashed under that blond hair, and I do not want to risk losing it." He paused dramatically. "Do you understand?"

They nodded. Chalkler squinted his eyes and looked up at Von Koeinghoffer, still standing over them. "Why is he so dull?"

"My friend had to use a variety of drugs to induce the reprogramming. Eventually, that affect will wear off, but nevertheless, his brain function is still altered."

"Does this mean you're going to coddle him?" Kaufmann asked, once again sarcastic.

Erich twisted his mouth into an evil smile. "I'll do whatever I have to do to get information from him. If it means special treatment, then yes. Any questions?"

Chalkler looked at Gretchen, who looked bored with the entire discussion. "You're quiet this morning."

"And?" she snapped.

"You have no imput on this discussion? That's not like you," Chalkler said.

"Unless it impacts on me directly, I have nothing to add," she countered quietly. "This is Erich's project, not mine."

"It didn't look like several weeks ago," Kaufmann sneered. "You had plenty to add then."

"Will you stop harping on that?" Gretchen's voice was raising.

"You interfered with my job. Kuryakin would have broken if you hadn't intervened."

"For the last time, he would have been dead!" Gretchen stood, talking louder yet. "When will you get that through your thick skull?"

"Enough already!" Von Koeinghoffer yelled, banging his fist on the desk. "Let it go, both of you!"

Like a surly child, Kaufmann sneered and huffed at Von Koeinghoffer's demand. He looked at his boss and shrugged. "You can't control her, Erich?" Kaufmann's tone was taunting.

"Surely, Franz, you don't want to experience my methods of control," Von Koeinghoffer threatened calmly. "Do you understand my directives concerning Kuryakin?"

"Of course, Herr Von Koeinghoffer," Kaufmann replied with mock respect.

Chalkler shifted in his chair, slightly uncomfortable with the proceedings. "So, Erich, how do you plan to use Kuryakin?"

Thankful for the break in the tension, Von Koeinghoffer sat back down and outlined his plan.

"Periodically I plan to call him in for questioning. But," Erich glared at Kaufmann, "it will be civil. Using Gretchen's apartment for the interrogations..." Gretchen glowered at Erich. "...will put him in a better frame of mind than, let's say, the cooler. Remember, he has to talk willingly."

"I feel it impacting on me," Gretchen mumbled.

Von Koeinghoffer turned towards her and smiled. "We'll discuss this later." His attention returned to the entire group. "I may offer him something to eat..." Gretchen's eyebrows raised. "...and occasionally a night away from the prisoners' quarters..." Gretchen sat up straight. "...in return for his information."

"Are you out of your mind?" Kaufmann laughed. "You're turning this prison compound into a fucking luxury hotel. I disagree with your methods!"

"You have no say in the matter, Franz. If you cannot abide by my directives, then we'll have to part company. We have a gold mine here. A virtual fountain of information, and I plan to drain it dry. I will not be undermined by you or anyone else." Erich looked at the three people sitting before him. It was 9 o'clock. His meeting was over. "Is that clear?"

As the meeting ended, Kaufmann and Chalkler got up to go about their jobs. Von Koeinghoffer took several steps towards the door, but Gretchen stopped him before he left.

"We need to talk," she said tersely.

"We will," he smiled, turning the doorknob.

"How about now?"

Erich sensed her anger.

Without a word, he turned around and headed towards her apartment, opened the door and motioned for her to enter. The door shut behind them louder than it should have.

Napoleon took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his brow.

"That was great!" Gretchen said, smiling. "You even had **_me_** pissed off.


	9. Chapter 9

The prisoners were still digging the foundation for the new building, but due to the recent heat wave, not much progress had taken place. Von Koeinghoffer ordered a reduced work schedule for Illya, citing that the UNCLE agent was not physically ready for a full work load, still recuperating in addition to the dulling drugs used for his reconditioning.

By 11 am, Illya was fading, slowing down drastically in the late morning heat. Erich sent a guard to bring Kuryakin inside the office. Several moments later, a very dirty, sweat-covered Russian agent was escorted in.

"Bring him inside," Von Koeinghoffer ordered the guard, motioning to Gretchen's apartment door.

"Don't let him touch anything, Erich. He's filthy," she grumbled.

The Thrush chief smiled. "Yes, Fraulein," he said in a patronizing tone, quietly closing her apartment door behind him.  
  
"How are you holding up?" Napoleon asked his partner as he poured him a large glass of orange juice. He handed it to Illya, who readily consumed it. Solo poured another.

"I don't think I'm quite ready for manual labor," he said wearily, sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs. "To top it off, Kaufmann is grinding at the bit to get his hands on me." Illya drank the second glass of juice. "I can see it in his eyes."

"You should be safe, Illya."

" _Should_ be?"

"I read him the riot act this morning."

"And you assume he has the common sense to follow it?" Illya closed his eyes, wondering if he returned to the compound too soon. The cool air began reviving him. "He's a wild cannon. You might consider putting him out of his misery... on official business, of course."

"On a lighter note, Gretchen has a refrigerator full of food." Napoleon described several for Illya's selection.

"They all sound good. How about a little of each?" Illya suddenly became aware of the odor reeking from his body. "Do you think Gretchen would mind if I showered?"

The bathroom in the hallway included a shower stall. Solo took Illya's clothes after he peeled them from his body and ran them through the washing machine. By the time he emerged from the bathroom smelling of floral soap and herbal shampoo, lunch was ready and waiting on the table. The only garment in the bathroom he found was a white, terry cloth robe.

Illya ate until his belly couldn't hold another morsel. Napoleon saw his friend's fatigue and suggested he curl up on the couch and take a short siesta before they began working on the computer. Illya readily agreed.

The siesta lasted most of the afternoon, finally rousing with the sound of Gretchen coming through the door after work. He looked around. Napoleon was working at a computer terminal set up at the breakfast bar which separated the kitchen and living room.

Gretchen walked over to Illya and sat down next to him.

"NIce bathrobe," she remarked. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better." He sat up slowly, trying to avert his oncoming dizziness. Gretchen watched the color drain from his face.

"You're not well enough to dig outdoors." Gretchen moved closer and gently pulled up one of his eyelids, checking for his pupil's reaction to light. Then she felt his pulse. "I have a friend in high places who owes me a few favors. Perhaps he can take care of that for you."

"Consider it done," Solo said from his computer. "We thought you were going to join us for lunch."

"I ate with Chalkler in the officer's dining room. He was dying to hear me bitch and moan about you, so I obliged him," she explained.

"Should I be jealous?"

"That's up to you. You're so arrogant...you know I'm smitten by your charms." Gretchen batted her eyelashes. So, 'Herr Haus Frau', what's for dinner?"

Solo and Kuryakin looked over the computer for the next several hours. Illya searched for ways to break into its stash of information without alerting Von Koeinghoffer's superiors at Thrush Central in Berlin. He had to be careful. The time spent brushing up on the technical journals the previous week was about to pay off. Napoleon continued accessing information and copying it for UNCLE.

They parted company a little after 9 pm. Illya was escorted back to the prisoners' lodgings with only a short period of time to "socialize" before the mandatory lights out at 9:30. The three UNCLE agents were all uncertain how the prisoners would react to having Kuryakin among them.

Illya and the prisoners were, after all, on opposites sides of good guy/ bad guy list, but under the present circumstances, they were all in the same pot of shit together. The Russian decided to keep a low profile. He knew the inside scoop about every single one of them, but was unsure how much they knew about him.  
  
The Siani brothers were playing cards when he entered, each arguing that the other one was cheating. Peter Hopfsnagle, Leland Pfizer, and Karl Mitzer, of the infamous mutiny attempt, sat on Pfizer's bed rehashing their gripes about Von Koeinghoffer, keeping the anger alive. Geoffrey Knowles lay in his bunk reading a golf magazine, trying to blot out the surrounding sounds while Sonny Lance slept the evening away.

The guard returning Illya to his quarters opened the door to the prisoners' barracks and roughly pushed him in. All seven men looked up at his entrance and stared for a few uncomfortable seconds. Illya knew that if they decided to gang up on him at this juncture, he'd be a goner. To his relief, the prisoners went back to what they were doing, ignoring him completely.

Illya walked over to his bunk, stripped down to his underwear and got under the top sheet. A short while later, the lights went out and all the extraneous sounds inside the room ceased.

* * * * *

  
Erich Von Koeinghoffer left orders the night before to have Kuryakin brought to the office after breakfast. By 7:30, Illya was brought to the Thrush chief for another day of questioning. Still "dull" in affect, the agent stood motionless in the office until Josef Chalkler told him to sit down. Once seated, he said nothing until Von Koeinghoffer emerged from Gretchen's apartment and ordered him to enter. Dutifully, he stood and followed him in.

"It smells good in here," Illya said, sniffing the aroma of bacon frying. He walked in the kitchen and smiled when he saw the table was set for three. "This looks a lot more edible than what I had this morning."

Illya and Napoleon sat down while Gretchen served the bacon and eggs from the frying pan. A high pile of toast, along with butter, and preserves were already on the table.

"How did the other prisoners react to you last night?" Napoleon asked as he spread the napkin on his lap.

"Like I wasn't even there. A non-entity. Just the way I like it," Illya replied.

"Did you sleep well?" Gretchen asked, pouring large mugs of coffee.

"Yes, in spite of that putrid, sagging mattress." Illya turned to Napoleon. "Can you see about getting us new ones? I especially like the ones which vibrate when you put a Deutsche Mark in the slot."

Napoleon smiled. "I doubt you'll be here by the time they're delivered. We're not hanging around any longer than we have to."

Illya looked up at his hostess. Beautiful as ever. An incredible woman. "Thanks for breakfast, Gretchen. Do you usually make such an elaborate spread?"

"Me?" she chuckled. "No, not at all. I usually hang over the sink with a bowl of cold cereal and milk. But I have company, so..."

"It's really nice being someone's 'company', isn't it, Napoleon?" Illya mused, nudging his partner.

"Yes," Gretchen added, "especially when they're kind enough to clean up after breakfast."

* * * * *

Andreas Petros, one of Von Koeinghoffer's personal guards sat outside Gretchen's apartment while the Thrush Chief questioned Kuryakin. Petros' concerns were not whether Illya would attempt an escape, but rather if Chalkler, Kaufmann, or one of the other guards might try to enter.

The plan was simple. He would discourage those who wanted to enter, but if they insisted, or had a seemingly plausible reason for entering, Petros would contact his UNCLE comrades inside the apartment by with a Thrush-issue communicator. He would then ask Von Koeinghoffer if he was agreeable to seeing the person in question. By the time it took for this to transpire, Napoleon and whoever was in the apartment with him could halt any damning activities. Two other men were used as Petros' relief guards, rotating every few hours whenever Napoleon visited. So far, no one dared disturb Von Koeinghoffer.  
  
By evening, Napoleon and Illya had accessed about a fifth of the information stored in Von Koeinghoffer's new computer. At the present, they made no changes to any files, only photographed everything they could get their hands on with a micro-camera, planning to get the film to UNCLE as soon as possible for processing on microfilm. After dinner, Gretchen and Illya played chess while Napoleon read the newspaper.

"Has Josef adjusted?" Napoleon nonchalantly asked Gretchen.

"To what? You? Being in here with me?" She laughed. "He's extremely jealous, you realize. I'm waiting for him to convince me that I'm making a big mistake."

"Why?" Illya added tersely. "Because of Napoleon...er Erich's philandering?"

Napoleon looked at Illya from behind the newspaper. His partner seemed quite contented...very contented... playing a quiet game of chess with Gretchen. _He's jealous of me...Illya's actually jealous,_ he thought. Solo shook it off and went back to reading his newspaper. The last thing they needed was competition among themselves.

"Exactly. I'm trying not to alienate him," she continued, moving a pawn, "yet, keep the seeds of doubt watered." Gretchen paused. "I love it."

"So it was worth abandoning the confines of your laboratory for this assignment, I take it," Illya surmised. His eyebrows raised as he casually announced "Checkmate!"

**Sunday, 24 August**

"I'm almost finished my work on the drug Kaufmann used," Gretchen told Napoleon the next morning. "Nothing happens around here on Sundays, so I'm heading into town."

"I think I'll join you. This would be a good time to get the microfilm processed."

Von Koeinghoffer and Gretchen left the main office as the prisoners were leaving the dining hall. Solo checked his watch, remembering that breakfast was later for the prisoners on Sunday mornings. He caught sight of Illya, who discreetly acknowledged him then followed the rest of the men to their quarters.

Gretchen immediately sequestered herself in the lab to finish her studies on the anti-anesthetic. Along with her experiments, she kept copious notes about her observations and findings.

She had determined that the drug attacked the pain centers of the brain and increased its activity at least tenfold while it was still in the bloodstream. When given in "normal" doses, Gretchen surmised that the victim should feel its effects at least 12 hours, then they should gradually wear off without any major side effects other than headache and nausea. When overdosed, she determined that the victim's brain could overload, possibly short-circuiting itself.

In Illya's case, he temporarily lost his ability to communicate in any language other than Russian, his mother tongue. He was unable to recognize anyone other than himself. Its half-life extended well beyond the majority of drugs, legal or illegal. Bloodwork taken from Illya even after he was admitted to the hospital, and for several days afterwards, still showed traces.

The effects of the drug were so strong that it would have proven fatal to administer a painkiller while under its influence. After identifying all the elements of the serum extracted from her blood samples, Gretchen was able to develop an antidote. Her major problem, like Peter Hecht, was not having a method of testing it. Lab rats provide a barometer, but human subjects would prove more statistically sound. In good conscious, she could not subject a human being to the test. She would merely prepare a few batches of the antidote and keep it at the prison compound, just in case...

By nightfall she was finished. Bleary-eyed, she found Napoleon and requested he take her back to the camp.

"All done?" he asked as their driver left one of the hospital's secured entrances.

Gretchen sighed and nodded, silently holding up several vials of pinkish fluid and a file folder full of notes.

"You've been working since you arrived, haven't you?"

Once again, she nodded.

"Have you at least eaten?"

"Time flies when you're having fun," she sighed, forcing a slight smile. "No, I was unable to fit it in. I get somewhat driven when I work."

Gretchen settled back in the seat and closed her eyes.

"And how about you, Napoleon. Did you finish everything you planned to do?"

"Yes." His voice was chipper, awake. "All the films were processed and sent on their way to New York. Mr. Waverly should get excited over this."

"Mr. Waverly gets excited?"

Napoleon Solo kept the rest of the day's account to himself. In addition to carrying out his duties, he spent several hours of quality time alone with Dr. Holtzman.

* * * * *

Solo did not want to appear too predictable with Von Koeinghoffer's schedule. Erich was the master at not being anywhere at any given time. He and Gretchen stayed in the apartment most of the morning, telling Josef by phone that she was simply too exhausted from too much Sunday. Josef would have to understand and work around this minor inconvenience.

Josef had difficulty reconciling himself with Von Koeinghoffer's overbearing, haughty attitude. He knew damn well what Erich and Gretchen were doing...possibly at that very moment. They were probably laughing at him when Erich hung up the phone.

After an hour of fuming, Chalkler approached Andreas Petros, requesting to see Von Koeinghoffer with an important matter. Petros tried his best to discourage him, but Chalkler was so persistent, the guard relented.

"Just a moment, Herr Chalkler," Andreas said, activating the communicator. When the signal was received, Petros asked if it would be all right for Chalkler to go in.

"Ja. Enter," a masculine voice answered.

"Go ahead," Petros said, opening the door for Chalkler.

"What is it?" Von Koeinghoffer asked, not looking up from the computer monitor. "Petros said it was important."

"How much longer will Gretchen be indisposed?" Chalkler asked, fishing for something important-sounding.

"The work is piling up, and I'm afraid we'll start falling behind if we slack off."

The Thrush chief shrugged his shoulders, never taking his eyes off the screen.

"I don't know. Ask her yourself. She should be getting up shortly anyway."

Chalkler was surprised at his response. He considered her bedroom off-limits now that Von Koeinghoffer had taken up residence with her.

Soft knocks on the door woke Gretchen. She grumbled at the disturbance and started drifting back to sleep when several more jolted her awake.

"Ja? Come in. This better be good," she warned.

Josef Chalkler entered, quickly observing the changes in her bedroom since his last visit. It had vestiges of male occupancy. Large, men's shoes lay about. A suit jacket hung over the back of a chair with a coordinated tie laid out across its shoulder. Several laundered shirts were neatly folded on top of the dresser to be put away. Cologne...Von Koeinghoffer's cologne...sat atop the bureau. Cufflinks, tie clips. The room even smelled of a man.

Gretchen turned over, surprised to see Josef.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, still half asleep.

He sat down next to her. The bed had been slept in by two people. Pillows on both sides of her king sized bed showed indents of where heads lay on them, pushing them slightly between the mattress and headboard. Gretchen had wrapped herself in the blanket, as she had done the last time he sat on her bed. She was wearing a nightgown. Its slender, spaghetti-like straps had carelessly slipped off her shoulder, making her even more irresistible looking.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked, honestly concerned.

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"Herr Von Koeinghoffer said you were slightly indisposed, and I thought..."

Gretchen laughed sleepily. "And you thought we were still...uh...you know.... didn't you?"

"No, no!" His defense wasn't convincing.

"Erich spent half the night going over the files on the computer, and I stayed up to keep him company. He just needs less sleep than I do."

Gretchen sat up and looked at the clock. _Not even 10 yet_ , she thought.

"Give me a few minutes to shower, OK?"

She pulled the covers off and slowly walked to the bathroom, scratching her head and yawning loudly. Not caring if Josef was watching her every move.

Gretchen poured herself a large mug of coffee before heading out to the main office.

"You're going to need more than that to keep you awake," Solo suggested, noting her fatigue. "You know you really don't need to go out there. As one of your friends in high places, I can cover for you."

"I'll hit the sack early tonight, Napoleon." She moved close to Solo, nudging him with her hip. "You realize, of course, you totally blew his mind."

"Oh, did I?" Napoleon asked innocently.

"Giving him permission to view the 'inner sanctum'?"

"Why not? He'd better get used to it."

"You don't want to completely alienate him either, do you?"

Napoleon sighed. "My mama didn't raise no fool."

* * * * *

From her desk, Gretchen could see the entire comings and goings of the compound. She knew exactly when the guards changed shifts, when supplies were coming through the gates, when the prisoners ate. At noon, her attention focused on the dining hall, watching for Illya entering with the other prisoners and exiting later. The weather had not broken, and Chalkler deemed it unfit for the prisoners to work after lunch, so he ordered them all back in their quarters for the remainder of the day.

By dinnertime, Erich was ready to question Illya. He sent one of his guards, Luther Gunther, to bring him in. He watching from Gretchen's office window.

The prisoners had just left the barracks and were heading to the dining hall for their evening meal. Von Koeinghoffer's guard stopped Illya before he climbed the steps and motioned for the blond agent to go with him. Illya shook his head, refusing.

The guard tried taking his arm, but Kuryakin pulled away.

"Can't this wait?" Illya rasped quietly to Gunther. "I'm very hungry."

"I have orders to bring you to Herr Von Koeinghoffer," the guard insisted, taking hold of Illya's arm once more. The agent struggled to get free. "Knock it off, all right?"

Illya saw Kaufmann fast approaching.

"At least let me eat first," Illya insisted, hoping Kaufmann wouldn't hear his plea. "I haven't had a meal since yesterday."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth when Franz Kaufmann descended upon him like a ton of bricks, pulling him away from Von Koeinghoffer's guard and striking him with fists. The Gunther tried getting between Illya and Kaufmann to break of the melée.

"I'll deal with this," Gunther hissed at Kaufmann. "He's coming with me."

When Kaufmann saw Von Koeinghoffer exit the door to the office, he elbowed the guard away, then pulled Kuryakin's head back by the hair, straightening him up to walk. Illya was pushed ahead of the disciplinarian towards the direction of the cooler. Without looking, Illya walked right into Von Koeinghoffer.

"Are we having a problem?" Von Koeinghoffer asked.

" _We_ aren't. I am," Illya responded inaudibly, glaring at Von Koeinghoffer.

Kaufmann stepped in and took a firm hold of Illya's upper arm.

"He's resisting your guard, refusing to follow his orders," Kaufmann sneered. Napoleon could see that Kaufmann was thrilled to finally have a reason to punish Illya.

Von Koeinghoffer directed his attention to Illya.

"And why would that be?" the Thrush chief asked.

"I'm sure your questions can wait fifteen minutes, Herr Von Koeinghoffer. I haven't eaten..." Illya saw the threatening look on Kaufmann's face. "...yet."

"Yes, it probably can wait, but as you know, I'm an impatient man. We're going to do this now." Erich motioned for Gunther to take Illya inside. Once they were alone, Von Koeinghoffer looked his disciplinarian directly in the eye.

"I'm ordering you to keep your hands off him. If there's a problem, my guards and I will handle it. Don't push your luck. Do you understand?"

"Of course, Herr Von Koeinghoffer."

Under the silence, Illya Kuryakin was angry. Gretchen and Chalkler noticed it immediately as Von Koeinghoffer's guard brought him into the office. Erich stormed in a moment later and told the guard to take him into the apartment. Von Koeinghoffer turned to Gretchen as her mouth opened to speak. He held up his hands to quiet her.

"I know...he's filthy and don't let him touch anything!"

Gretchen knew better than to counter him.  
  
Illya fought to compose himself, breathing heavily. He turned towards Solo.

"I haven't eaten since yesterday morning, Napoleon. What the hell is going on?"

"Illya, I checked with my men last night and this morning. They've been watching you like a hawk. They reported that you've been going to meals regularly, and Kaufmann has kept away from you."

The blond Russian was glowering. "I go to meals, but I am not permitted to eat. It's a little difficult to argue at gunpoint." His voice was seeped in anger. "Oh...and he threatened retaliation if I told you."

Napoleon closed his eyes and nodded, annoyed that he never foresaw this problem. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'll take care of it."

Illya accepted the apology wordlessly and headed towards the refrigerator. Orange juice. He wanted orange juice. _Good, half a carton left_.

"Are you hurt?" Solo asked, walking over to his partner.

"Just the usual. Bumps and bruises." He poured a tall glass of juice for himself and drank it without stopping for air. He jiggled the juice in the carton...a little more left. Kuryakin shrugged his shoulders and poured the remainder in his glass, downing that as well. He looked up at Napoleon. "We're out of juice."

Illya rummaged through the refrigerator, looking for something immediately filling. Cheese. Two leftover pork chops. Merely an appetizer.

When he finished, Napoleon recommended a shower while he warmed him up some real food. Illya considered that a good idea, and headed toward the bathroom. He stopped at the washing machine and inserted every stitch of clothing en route.

Gretchen returned to her apartment almost two hours later. She heard Solo and Kuryakin talking, but saw neither hide nor hair of them. The voices carried through her bedroom door, leading her to the bathroom.

"Well, make yourselves right at home," she declared.

Illya looked up from the jacuzzi, surrounded by bubbles. He lifted his glass of wine to greet her. Napoleon sat on the rim with his pant legs rolled up and both feet in the swirling water.

"Rumor has it that a whirlpool is great for stimulation," Solo mused, eyes twinkling.

"Aah yes. I've heard that rumor, too," Gretchen smiled. "The Holtzman theory, isn't it?"

Napoleon looked surprised.

Gretchen smiled. "Girls talk." She looked at Illya. "You know, of course, that alcohol consumption and jacuzzis don't mix well."

"I'll take the risk," Illya replied, closing his eyes, absorbed in the comfort surrounding his body. His aches and pains were floating away with the bubbles.

She motioned for Napoleon to move over and sat down next to him. It took no time at all to roll up the pant legs of her khaki's and immerse her legs in the tub. Solo reached over and handed her a glass of wine.

"You're so thoughtful," she sighed, pinching his cheek.

* * * * *

It was well past midnight when the three UNCLE agents realized how much time had passed. Napoleon was still very much awake, willing to continue copying files and preparing them for Mr. Waverly. Gretchen felt she could hold out a few hours more. Illya, on the other hand, was exhausted, and although he put up a good front, both Napoleon and Gretchen knew fatigue was getting the better of him.

"Just stay here tonight," Napoleon offered. He smiled. "I'm the boss. No one would dare question me about this."

Illya nodded. He looked around for a place to sleep. The couch.

"It would be a little quieter in the bedroom, Illya," Gretchen said, anticipating Illya's decision. "Come on. I'll get you some pajamas to change into."

Illya nodded once more, too tired to disagree. He stood up and followed her into the bedroom. He had never been in there before, and despite his fatigue, his powers of observation were still keen. All the accoutrements of co-habitation were around making him slightly uncomfortable ...as though he were eavesdropping on their lives.

Gretchen opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of men's pajamas. _Napoleon's size_ , Illya thought as she handed the bedclothes to him.

"I know they're too big, but in a pinch, they'll do," she said, sensing Illya's discomfort. "You know where the bathroom is. Is there anything else you need?"

"No," Illya replied, shaking his head. "This is just fine."

Gretchen walked over, kissing him on the cheek. "Good night, then."  
  
Illya removed his clothes and put on the pajamas. Too tired to care that they hung on his slight frame, he shut the light and got into bed, pulling the covers around him. The mattress was perfect. Neither too soft nor too hard. No lumps or sags. The pillows smelled of freshly laundered pillowcases. He closed his eyes and sighed, luxuriating in the comfort for the short while until he fell asleep.

* * * * *

A bedroom door opened, causing a stream of light to break through the darkness like a knife. Illya awoke instantly, lying still to acclimate himself with his surroundings before reacting. A female form was silhouetted in the light for a few seconds before the door closed, and blackness shrouded the room once more. Footsteps sounded as the person walked across the room, opening another door. Her hand reached inside the secondary room and turned on a light. Through semi-closed eyes, Illya could see her look over her shoulder at him. She entered the other room and closed the door behind her, bring on the blackness once again. Illya fell back asleep.

The mattress shifted slightly, waking Illya for a second time. In the dimness of the room, he saw a shadowy figure lie down on the bed. The person got under the blankets, causing the covers to tug at him a little. Then she sighed.

"Gretchen?" Illya asked quietly.

"Ja," came the sleepy response.

"What are you doing here?" Illya moved a little closer.

"Trying to fall asleep."

There was a short silence. Gretchen hoped it was was the end of the discussion.

"Here?"

Gretchen turned around to face him in the darkened room.

"Illya, this is my bed. I happen to like sleeping in it. It's very large and capable of accommodating the two of us. Please...it's after 4...I only have a few hours to sleep. We can talk later. OK?"

"But what about Napoleon?" he asked, ignoring her plea.

"What **_about_** Napoleon?" she countered, her impatience becoming apparent.

"Isn't this a little awkward? Where is he going to sleep?"

"On the couch."

"On the **_couch_**?"

Gretchen sat up in the darkness, now irate at Illya's persistence. "Illya, he **_always_** sleeps on the couch. We've never slept together. Does that quell your curiosity?" Her voice was louder than before.

Illya became silent, caught off guard. He never suspected that Napoleon and Gretchen were keeping this ruse completely platonic. _Gretchen's choice, obviously,_ he mused to himself.

Gretchen lay back down again.

"Our cover must really be effective if we had **_you_** fooled," she continued. "Besides, he's sleeping with my best friend."

Illya moved a little closer to her, but she stopped him almost immediately.

"I make it a habit not to get romantically involved with my co-workers," Gretchen cautioned. "It becomes a little too close for comfort."

The Russian moved closer yet, giving her a kiss on the forehead. "Point well taken," he said as he moved to the other side of the bed. "Good night, Gretchen."

* * * * *

The clock alarm sounded at exactly 8 am. Illya bolted up and eyed his unfamiliar surroundings. He found the source of the noise - the clock - and tried shutting it off.

"Let me do it," a sleepy voice mumbled.

Illya slumped back down as Gretchen reached over him to turn off the alarm. Once it was turned off, she looked down at Illya. His eyes were fixated on the neckline of her nightgown. She looked down at herself and noticed how the fabric dipped slightly, offering Illya a clear view of her breasts. Shaking her head, she grabbed the fabric and moved away. Still tired, lay back down, covering her eyes with her forearm to block out the light.

"I can disarm hundreds of bombs successfully," Illya said softly, moving closer to her, "but I must have missed the class on alarm clocks."

"Mmmmm."

She was beautiful, half asleep in the morning light. Her breathing was slow and steady, her chest raising rhythmically under the covers.

"Can I hold you for a little while?" His voice was close to her ear, startling her.

Gretchen opened her eyes and looked at him. Illya was lying on his side closer to her than she realized.

"Is this where you tell me that you haven't held a woman in your arms for a long time?" she joked.

"Something like that."

She thought a moment then nodded. "All right."

As Illya put his left arm under her, she twisted herself so that her back nestled against him. He wrapped his right arm around her, holding her close. Warm, gently sensations went through both of them as they lay together silently, enjoying the feeling of being close.

Illya's right hand slid under the fabric of her nightgown, caressing her neck and shoulder. For a few more moments, Gretchen seemed contented to lie in his arms, savoring his touch. Her eyes were closed and Illya could almost feel her purring as he held her.

Then she moved, apparently uncomfortable or restless. Gretchen had made her position on relationships clear several hours before. Respecting her wishes, Illya released his embrace.

He stroked her hair. "Thank you," he said softly.

Unexpectedly, Gretchen turned around to face him before silently pulling him closer.

"No. Thank you," she smiled. "It's been a long time since a man held me in his arms."

Illya obliged and wrapped his arms around her again. Her head rested against his chest, her blonde hair tickling his neck. He wanted to run his hands over her body, feeling every contour, every crevice of her soft skin, but he was apprehensive about being too aggressive. Simplely holding her aroused him, thwarting his usual air or reserve.

He shifted his weight, turning Gretchen on her back and himself on his belly alongside her. Illya ran his hands through her hair and kissed her forehead, moving lower to her eyelids, her cheek and finally her mouth. His right leg encircled hers while he held her tightly, bringing them even closer.

A knock on the door stopped them both in their tracks. A second knock followed then the door opened a little.

"Illya?" a loud whisper called inside. "Are you awake?" The voice - Napoleon's - was getting closer.

Kuryakin rose up on his elbows as Solo neared. The senior agent was genuinely embarrassed when he saw what he disturbed.

"I'm sorry, Illya, but Chalkler is about to throttle Petros and break down the door. I need you inside."

Illya understood all too well. He looked down at Gretchen and ran his fingers through her hair once more before leaving the room.

"You timing is impeccable as always, Napoleon," Illya sneered as he passed his partner in the doorway.

Napoleon glanced back at her with a confused look on his face. Gretchen smiled and shrugged her shoulders, at a loss for words.

* * * * *

When Josef Chalkler entered the apartment, Illya was seated in a chair next to Von Koeinghoffer's monitor, facing the Thrush chief who appeared to be typing information into the computer.

"Well you look like hell!" Chalkler remarked to the unshaven, disgruntled Kuryakin.

Illya looked up and scowled, not saying a word.

"I've kept him busy all night, Josef. He had a lot to say. The poor boy must be tired by now."

"Really? Hmmm, maybe your plan is working. Oh," Chalkler continued, nonchalantly, "do you have any idea when Gretchen will be making an appearance?"

Erich looked up at him and sighed. "Go ask her yourself...but be warned, she was in a foul mood when she went to bed a few hours ago."

Napoleon smiled as he turned to face the monitor and Illya again.

They heard him knock on the bedroom door, then heard the door open. From where he was sitting, Illya could see Chalkler's back. He never set foot into the bedroom and he only partially heard their conversation from the doorway.

"Well, you were right," Chalkler said as he returned. "She is a bit nasty this morning. But, she agreed to be at her desk in an hour."

Erich looked up again. "Don't count on it, Josef. I have been up all night as well, and I plan to be joining her very shortly." He smiled. "You shouldn't expect her until after noon...uh," he winked, "...maybe later."

Chalkler was visibly hurt and angered. His face reddened and his lips drew tightly together. He turned towards Illya.

"At least let me take him off your hands," Chalkler offered.

"No need, Josef. Like I said, he was very cooperative. As an incentive for his cooperation, I'll see he eats well and tonight...er...today, he's my guest."

"Your guest? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

Von Koeinghoffer stood up and escorted Chalkler out of the apartment.

"What did you just say?" Erich asked out of Illya's earshot.

"Are you out of your mind? Do you realize what a security risk it is just having him in here?"

"Think about what you are doing right now, Josef. You are questioning my authority. Do you really want to proceed with this conversation?"

Chalkler ignored his boss' concerns.

"What's going to stop him from escaping?...or killing you both?"

"Trust me, Josef. He's not going anywhere. He'll be handcuffed to the sofa and one of my guards is always nearby." Von Koeinghoffer reassuringly patted Chalkler on the back. "Kuryakin's reconditioning knocked him down a few notches. He's more complacent than before. And now, we're 'friends'. See you later."

Von Koeinghoffer slipped into Gretchen's apartment once again and locked the door.

When Napoleon returned, Illya was sitting at the kitchen table eating a large slice of pumpernickel bread slathered with butter.

"You never told me that Gretchen made you sleep on the couch," the Russian chided, reaching for a glass of milk.

Solo smiled innocently. "You never asked."

"Losing your touch?"

"I hope not," Napoleon sighed. He chuckled. "Not that I haven't tried. Gretchen as this 'thing' about keeping her distance from people she works with."

"So she says."

"You two seemed pretty...uhhh...cozy a few minutes ago. How on earth did that happen?"

"Perhaps she's attracted to the down-trodden," Illya responded flatly. "Hmmm, that bread is quite good." He cut himself another slice, and offered to cut one for Napoleon, who accepted. He buttered both pieces and handed one to his partner. "Milk?"

Napoleon smiled and shook his head "no."

Illya opened the bedroom door a little to see if Gretchen was still asleep. She was still, breathing slowly. After he left with Napoleon, she had re-made the bed, making it look as if she had been sleeping alone the past few hours.

After gathering up his clothes, Illya walked towards the bedroom door to leave.

"You didn't even say 'Good Bye'," a sleepy voice mumbled. "You men are all alike."

"Good bye," he said softly.


	10. Chapter 10

Napoleon Solo sprawled out on the couch to get some well needed sleep himself. He had been working on copying the Thrush files for several days with very little down time. Thanks to his ruse, he had been able to access information about the location of many Thrush satraps UNCLE never knew existed, as well as schematics and personnel information. He did nothing to alter information, though. That was Illya's area of expertise.

The Russian agent had been able to successfully access passwords and by-pass intruder alerts to alter UNCLE files already on the computer. Before making his changes, Illya took note of the date the file was completed and changed the computer's internal clock to match that date. His alterations would not seem current, avoiding detection by others who may be accessing the information.

Naturally, Illya wanted to check his own file. Immediately, his photo came on the screen with pertinent information concerning his physical appearance, distinguishing characteristics, background, strengths and weaknesses. All the information was correct and on target; too true for comfort. With the click of a few keys, he was now five inches taller and spoke with a lisp. His left foot gained another toe along with 40 pounds, and he developed a fondness for women over the age of 65.

Napoleon's file was next. Again, the files were completely accurate. Thrush's files even acknowledged his lust for women, zeroing in on specific types. _Hmmm._ Click. Click. His height, weight and eye color was changed. His right hip suddenly developed a birthmark in the shape of Mickey Mouse ears. Due to a religious experience, he had recently become celibate.

He checked a file on Gretchen Zeinreich, MD. None.

Alexander Waverly was next. Illya found it interesting reading about his boss from their enemy's perspective. They held him in the highest esteem - a formidable enemy, a plum target for capture. Several minutes later, even Mr. Waverly's mother would not recognize him from the description.

Systematically, Illya continued going through each of the UNCLE personnel files, altering, augmenting, bastardizing the information until it would prove completely useless.

During the later morning, Gretchen finally awoke, showered and dressed, emerging from her room looking as attractive as ever in white linen slacks and a black T-shirt. She walked quietly past Napoleon, sound asleep on the couch, and into the kitchen to grab a quick bite before going to work.

Illya was still working diligently at the computer. An occasional smirk would cross his face as he made the changes.

"Did you realize that April Dancer is really a man?" Illya whispered to her.

Gretchen shook her head, not understanding the context of his comment.

"Well, she is now," he continued.

Gretchen was quieter than usual. They had gotten close, perhaps a little too close for comfort. Illya would have preferred to ignore it and let it go away, but he sensed that Gretchen needed to talk about it, apologize, explain her actions, whatever...

"Illya, I..." she began.

Kuryakin got off his chair and moved closer to her, placing his hand lightly over her lips. He took her arm, guiding her further into the apartment and out of Napoleon's ear shot.

"Gretchen, you owe me no explanation. I feel exactly as you do about relationships with co-workers. It's dangerous and unwise." He touched her face. "Maybe we should just put this behind us."

She smiled and gently punched his arm. "I knew you'd understand."

They both lied.

Illya worked throughout the day, sabotaging Thrush's files on UNCLE agents, installations and activities. By the time Napoleon woke late in the afternoon, Kuryakin made his way through at least a quarter of the information.

"Sleep well?" Illya asked, putting the finishing touches on his last file.

Solo stretched and yawned. "Probably not as well as you did."

"Don't fret, Napoleon," the Russian assured him. "You had less distractions than I."

Napoleon finally stood up and walked into Gretchen's room to get showered and dressed. "Don't fret, Illya. I keep all my stuff in here for show."

"This is like living in three different time zones," Gretchen remarked as she sat down for lunch...at 6 pm.

Illya was eating dinner while Napoleon was in the midst of finishing his breakfast.

"At least we're making progress," Napoleon reported optimistically. "I'm almost finished copying the files on Thrush agents. I'm going to head into town tomorrow to process the films, and send them off to headquarters. Satraps and installations are next on the agenda."

"Well, my eyes are bleary. Too much computer, I think," Illya said, squinting a little. "If you want to finish up the Thrush files tonight, be my guest, Napoleon. I've had enough for today."  
  
The three UNCLE agents played three-handed pinochle for the next several hours. Illya felt completely distracted by Gretchen, but refused to let it show.

There was an awkward silence when Napoleon excused himself to use the bathroom. It continued even after his return. Sensing the pinochle game was basically over, Solo retreated to the computer to finish copying the Thrush files. Illya picked up yesterday's paper and began reading. Gretchen got up and poured herself a glass of milk.

Silence.

"I'm calling it a day," Gretchen quietly announced as she put her empty glass in the sink. "My bathtub beckons. Good night, gentlemen." Gretchen closed the bedroom door behind her.

Napoleon stopped typing and tried to catch Illya's attention. The stubborn Russian had his head stuck in the newspaper, blotting out the scenario around him.

"You never cease to amaze me, Illya," Napoleon said, breaking the silence.

"And just how is that?" Illya responded sarcastically.

"Despite your vast levels of intelligence and extraordinary perception, you're probably one of the most ignorant men around."

Illya put the paper down, scowling at his partner. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"C'mon, don't play dumb. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Indulge me, Napoleon."

"How long have we worked together? Five...six years? Haven't you learned anything about women in that time?"

"That's your area of expertise, not mine."

"Have I failed as your mentor?" Napoleon asked with mock dismay.

Illya almost cracked a smile. "Get to the point."

"Gretchen has made every innuendo possible to you, and still, you're out here with me. What's wrong with this picture?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong, Napoleon. She's adamant about her relationship with us and I respect that. This morning," he paused, "...she was half asleep. I felt like I was taking advantage of her."

Napoleon stood up and walked into the kitchen. "I seriously doubt she would let that happen. Gretchen's no fool." He reached for two wine glasses, then rummaged through her refrigerator for a chilled bottle of wine. His head finally reappeared. He stood triumphantly holding up a bottle of chablis. "Aah, the elixir of amour! Here..." Napoleon walked back to Illya and handed him the wine and glasses. "Go forth and seduce."

The Russian shook his blond head. "No. This is more your style."

"And proven to work." Napoleon guided a reluctant Illya to her bedroom door, opened it and pushed him inside.

Still shaking his head, Illya turned to leave.

Napoleon stopped him, motioned with his forefinger for his partner to turn around and silently mouthed the word: "Go!"  
  
Illya listened at her bathroom door before knocking softly. The room was quiet except for the gently hum of the jacuzzi.

"Ja?"

Illya opened the door slightly. "Would you like some company?" Steam escaped from the opening.

"Sure, why not?"

Illya entered the bathroom, which was now, moist and steamy. Gretchen was submerged to her neck in warm, swirling water, her hair pulled up to the top of her head and twisted in a soft knot to keep it dry. She looked relaxed, at ease. He squatted down close to her and poured each of them a glass of chablis. He locked on to her gaze as he handed her the glass, almost melting as he looked in her eyes. It was rare that a woman had this effect on him, and despite the overwhelming desire he felt for Gretchen at the moment, he hated his lack of reserve.

Without taking a sip, Illya put down his wine glass on the rim of the jacuzzi and reached over to kiss Gretchen's mouth. Her response was warm, inviting, as she held his head with both her hands and returned the kiss.

"Would you like me to wash your back?" he quietly murmured, kissing her cheek.

"I would love it."

Gretchen's eyes closed as she rested back against the edge of the tub, letting the warm flowing water caress every inch of her. Her euphoria was interrupted by one of Illya's legs entering the water alongside her arm, then the other leg. She looked over; the calf of his legs were bare, as were his thighs. Her head tilted back next, leaving her to gaze up at his naked torso and shoulders.

"You have no clothes on?" she asked.

"I didn't want to get them wet," he said softly, picking up a bar of soap and a washcloth to wash her back.

She leaned forward slightly to expose her back. Gentle hands bathed her and before she audibly heard herself, she was purring with the sensation.

"Move forward just a little," Illya told her, pressing the small of her back.

"Hmmm?"

"Move up a bit."

Without a second thought, she slid her hips forward, leaving enough room for Illya to ease down behind her. Her eyes opened and she looked over her shoulder.

"Shhh. It's all right. Just lean back and relax," Illya murmured softly, sensing her uneasiness. "It feels so good being close to you." He played with the loose wisps of hair at the nape of her neck.

"Hmmm, it must be the Holtzman theory," Gretchen said quietly.

"Just what is the Holtzman theory?" he asked quietly, kissing her neck. "I haven't read that study."

Gretchen smiled. "I'll explain it later." Her tone became more serious. "We really shouldn't be doing this."

"We're just relaxing in a jacuzzi, Gretchen," he assured. "A little good, clean fun."

Illya handed her a glass of wine and took the other for himself. They drank a few sips, then placed the glasses on the jacuzzi's rim.

Gretchen shook her head and chuckled. It did feel good. She decided not to fight the sensations and leaned back, nestling against Illya's chest. Her head fell back on his shoulder and he wrapped his arms around her.

He held her in the swirling water, exhilarated by the feeling of her naked skin touching his. His groin tingled. He nuzzled her nape of her neck, kissing the tender skin along her backbone, sending shivers went down Gretchen's spine. His hand began massaging her shoulders then moved downward to her breasts.

"That's not my back," she sighed softly.

"I know."

In the warm water, his hands glided over her skin like silk, awakening sensations in Gretchen she hadn't felt in quite some time. Her last few relationships had been disastrous, causing her more grief than pleasure. She wasn't sure she was ready for another man in her life, let alone one she was working so closely with. Illya's hands moved down her belly, gently moving over her soft skin.

"Illya, this really isn't a good idea," she protested with her eyes closed, breathing a little more heavily. "I don't get involved with..."

"I know."

Touching Gretchen aroused Illya. Her skin was soft and supple, and she was responsive to his touch. Most of her defenses seemed to have melted away with the warm, swirling water. His hands tenderly roamed more of her body, exploring the secret areas he had so desperately wanted to discover. All the while, his penis responded with the increased stimulation, becoming harder and more erect.

Illya could tell Gretchen was becoming as aroused as he. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened, the lithe body moving to optimize his touch.

"This really is not a good idea," she weakly protested. She could feel his cock growing in size, pressing against her.

"I could stop," he replied softly in her ear, nibbling its lobe while he continued caressing her.

Despite her protests, Gretchen would move ever so subtly against him, making his cock even harder, hearing him suck in air as her movements aroused him further.

Gretchen felt his weight shift as he slid around to the front of her, helping her slide back against the tub. He reclined next to her, taking her in his arms, kissing her passionately. She reached down his body and slid her hand between his thighs. His legs parted, giving her access to the sensitive areas around his groin. She massaged him, teased him, made him gasp with pleasure. She gently held his penis and stroked as it enlarged more. Illya kissed her harder; he wanted to enter her, make love to her.

She parted her knees, silently inviting him. He held her close with his arms wrapped around her back, their lips never parting while he brought himself between her legs. Gretchen's lifted her hips slightly so she could accommodate Illya's penetration. Her body quivered when he entered, sending waves of excitement through her.

Each push, each thrust went deeper, deeper, intensifying the erotic sensations with each movement.

Illya never took his eyes off Gretchen. Her response to his lovemaking aroused him more, fueling his passion. He thrust himself deeper inside her, his penis throbbing to release its seed. His pace quickened as his climax neared, and Gretchen responded to his urgency and moved in perfect rhythm with him, both reaching orgasm.

The heavy breathing and gasps for air extended for an eternity after they climaxed. Illya stayed inside her a few moments more, savoring the subtle aftershocks of her vaginal muscles post climax. They clung to each other until the panting slowed to normal breathing.

Illya moved first, kissing Gretchen tenderly, stroking her face. He slid alongside her and held her close, trying to extend the pleasure of being near as long as possible. Then he stood and reached for a towel, extending a hand to help Gretchen to her feet. Tenderly, he wrapped the towel around her and hugged her body to his. Gretchen grabbed a second towel and dried off her new lover. They stepped out of the tub and embraced again, then kissed, then walked into the bedroom completely unconcerned with the water pooled on the bathroom floor.  
  
Illya and Gretchen made love until the pre-dawn hours of the morning. Neither partner expected the other to be as warm and giving as they were. Gretchen's cool, seemingly indifferent exterior melted away with Illya's first kiss.

Never in her most lurid fantasies had she expected this much fulfillment making love. She was amazed at Illya's gentleness. His hands...hands that were lethal...stroked and caressed her. His blue eyes, generally cold as ice, were warm and romantic, dancing with delight while they made love. Finally, in total exhaustion, they fell asleep in each others' arms.

* * * * *

  
A knock on the door roused them to their senses. They both froze, looking at each other in disbelief. It took only seconds for them to recall why they were naked and entwined with each other. The knock sounded again, only louder and with more urgency. The door opened slightly.

"Illya! Up-and-at-em." Napoleon's voice was a raspy whisper. "Chalkler is grinding at the bit again!"

Without a second's hesitation, Illya jumped out of bed and looked around for his clothes. Damn. They were still in the bathroom. He grabbed the first thing he saw, a towel, wrapped it around his waist before running out of the bedroom.

"I need to switch places with you," Napoleon said quickly, eyeing Illya up and down after he appeared in the towel.

Illya chuckled. "I'll bet you do."

The sofa bed was opened and still warm from the spot where Napoleon slept.

The senior agent tossed Illya a pair of handcuffs before they changed places.

"I could have used these earlier," Kuryakin mused, holding up the handcuffs. "Oh...Napoleon, my clothes are in the bathroom."

Illya locked one end of the cuffs to the inner frame of the sofa bed, then locked the other end around his wrist. He got under the covers and shut his eyes. Petros contacted a very drowsy-sounding Von Koeinghoffer again, relaying Chalkler's request to come in. Napoleon made it loud and clear that he resented being disturbed...but yes, if it was that urgent, send Chalkler in.

When Chalkler walked the door, the first thing he saw was Kuryakin lying face down on the sofa bed with his head buried in a fluffy pillow, apparently asleep. He walked over and pulled back the covers, relieved to see the UNCLE agent's wrist handcuffed to the couch. Illya stiffened as the cool air washed over him, "waking" him faster than expected.

"I take it you were comfortable last night?" Chalkler asked sarcastically.

Illya grunted and nodded his head, closing his eyes again.

Josef sniffed the air, then sniffed closer to Illya's bare shoulder. "You smell like Gretchen," he commented.

"It beats the way I smelled when I came in here," he mumbled. He sniffed himself and raised his eyebrows. "Nice, lingering scent."

Illya shifted and tried turning over on to his back. The handcuff made his movements difficult. "Could you please unlock this. I've been on this couch for at least 12 hours and I need to use the toilet."

Chalkler obliged him. "12 hours?"

Illya nodded towards the bedroom as he stood up. "12 hours." He hurried to the bathroom and after relieving himself, washed off the evidence of his encounter with Gretchen the night before.

"And where are your clothes?" Chalkler asked as Illya returned from the bathroom.

"Herr Von Koeinghoffer took them in the bedroom," Kuryakin explained. "Insurance against me walking away during the night, I assume."

A smile crossed Josef Chalkler's face. "Well, I'm not feeling brave enough this morning to retrieve you clothes. Perhaps you have a more adventurous spirit than I."

"I somehow doubt that," Illya muttered. Chalkler didn't budge. Illya looked at him, surprised. "You're serious, aren't you?"

Chalkler nodded.

Hesitantly, Illya walked towards the bedroom door, looking over his shoulder at Chalkler. He knocked lightly. No answer.

"He either fell back asleep or is 'involved' again," Illya said, turning around to walk away.

Chalkler's facial expression indicated that Kuryakin's response was unacceptable, so Illya knocked again, this time a little louder.

Still no response. Illya turned around once again, and this time, Chalkler motioned for him to open the door and go in.

"I can't do that," Illya said, starting to look uneasy.

"You'll have to...unless you care to be dressed like that all day."

For the third time, Illya turned towards the door, this time opening it slightly. Through the small opening, he could see Von Koeinghoffer laying face down near the edge of the bed, one arm hanging over the side. The blanket covered the bottom half of his body, leaving his muscular back exposed. Gretchen was wrapped in the other end of the blanket, seemingly asleep. Illya's clothes were folded in a pile on the floor next to Von Koeinghoffer.

Purposely, Kuryakin left the door slightly ajar after entering.

The blond agent walked in as quietly as possible, hoping not to "wake" Von Koeinghoffer. He made it past the foot of the bed, getting closer to his clothes. As he reached down to pick them up, a strong hand clamped down on his arm, dropping him to his knees. Von Koeinghoffer rose up on his elbows and pulled Kuryakin closer.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he growled, looking Kuryakin directly in the eyes.

Illya hesitated. Von Koeinghoffer shook his arm.

"I needed to get my clothes," Illya responded and then paused. " _I'm hungry_ ," he whispered.

"How did you get out of the handcuffs?"

"Herr Chalkler unlocked them." Illya tried pulling out of Von Koeinghoffer's grasp, only to be held tighter. " _I assume you'll order breakfast for us_ ," he added under his breath.

"Herr Chalkler...oh, that's right," Von Koeinghoffer scratched his head, still half asleep. "Petros called me. Chalkler wanted to see me this morning." He let go of Illya's arm. "Chalkler, this better be good!" he bellowed. "I'll be out in a minute. You..." he directed Illya's attention to the clothes, "...get your stuff and get out of here. Don't ever come in here like this again. Do you understand?"

Illya nodded and gathered up his belongings, stood up and left the room, closing the door.

"He's a little testy this morning," Kuryakin warned Chalkler as he walked past.

By the time Von Koeinghoffer exited the bedroom in his bathrobe, Kuryakin had dressed. The Thrush chief's hair was mussed and he wore the expression of one who was not pleased to be awakened.

"What's so important that you had to wake me up at this ridiculous hour?" Von Koeinghoffer grumbled, scratching his beard.

"Erich, it's after nine. It's not all that early."

"What exactly do you want?" he asked impatiently.

"The payroll is due. I need Gretchen to get it finished today. Will she be joining me in the office?"

Von Koeinghoffer grunted. "Yes...soon, I guess. We had another late night."

"So I can tell," Chalkler said sarcastically. "Well, I need her as soon as she is awake. We'll have a riot on our hands if the men don't get paid." He motioned for Illya to follow him out the door.

"I don't know about you, but I'm starving. I must have worked up a big appetite. Josef, would you care to join me for breakfast?" Von Koeinghoffer asked as he plodded to the telephone in bare feet.

"Thank you, no. I've eaten."

"How about coffee then? I'm going to call the dining hall to deliver."

"I appreciate the offer, but someone needs to run the office."

"Kuryakin? How about you?"

Illya looked up, seemingly surprised at the offer, and nodded.

Josef cast a glance towards his boss that could have melted ice.

Von Koeinghoffer walked over to Illya and placed his arm around his shoulder. "He's been very informative over the past few days. It's the least I can do."

Illya turned his gaze away, casting his eyes downward in humiliation.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?" Von Koeinghoffer asked Josef.

"Well...maybe coffee."

A phone call was placed to the officer's dining hall ordering breakfast for three, extra coffee, extra pastries. While the order was being filled, Von Koeinghoffer retreated into the bedroom again and dressed, emerging just seconds before the food arrived.

Von Koeinghoffer set places for four at the kitchen table.

"Why four settings?" Chalkler asked.

The Thrush chief smirked and winked. "If nothing else, the smell of food will wake Sleeping Beauty."

As predicted, Gretchen came out a short while later in her bathrobe, as mussed and disheveled as Von Koeinghoffer had been earlier. She chuckled and shook her head at the sight of the box from the dining hall.

"And to think for the moment I had the delusion you actually cooked," she said wryly, sitting next to Von Koeinghoffer.

"Aah, friendly as ever," Erich sighed.  
  
Josef finished his coffee and pastry and excused himself from the table, citing that work had to be done. He stood up and expected Illya, who was still devouring food, to do the same. The Russian agent stopped mid mouthful and looked up, sensing the tension of the power-play between the two Thrush men.

"Let him finish," Von Koeinghoffer ordered. "Like I said, he was very cooperative."

The tension in the room subsided the moment Chalkler left the apartment. Gretchen heaved a sigh of relief, Napoleon marveled at their ability to carry this ruse through, and Illya kept on eating.

When they finished, Napoleon gathered the dirty plates and silverware and put them in the sink, then disposed of the food containers. Illya walked Gretchen into the bedroom and took her in his arms once more.

"At least I can say a proper goodbye," he said as he pushed aside a few stray strands of hair from her forehead. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm one of those men who leave like a thief in the night."

She returned his hug, sighing quietly.

* * * * *

On Saturday, Solo left for town with the films, asking Luther Gunther to stay behind to ensure Illya's well being. He no longer trusted Kaufmann or Kaufmann's guards to follow his orders. Before leaving, he informed Chalkler that he'd be away for a day or two, not quite certain when he would return.  
  
Erich Von Koeinghoffer returned in the early hours of Sunday morning. He checked the prisoner's quarters when he arrived and was relieved to find Illya soundly asleep. Not to draw attention to his affiliation with his partner, Napoleon went through the motions of checking all the prisoners in the process. Illya awoke with the sound of footsteps coming closer to him, on one hand glad it was only his partner but annoyed at being wakened at 3 am. With no verbal exchange, Napoleon ascertained Illya was unharmed, and patted him on the shoulder before leaving.

The past several days at UNCLE's satellite office gave Solo the opportunity to bring Mr. Waverly up to date on the affair. He processed the films and made arrangements to transfer the information to New York. The wheels of progress were already in motion. Thanks to the files previously relayed, several Thrush installations had been infiltrated or destroyed. Surveillance had been initiated on Thrush agents whose whereabouts were now known.

Obviously, Solo's and Kuryakin's undercover actions were bringing in a plethora of information UNCLE would have not had access to under normal circumstances.

"I would recommend you complete your work expeditiously, Mr. Solo," Alexander Waverly warned via overseas relay. "I'm certain that our increased activity is stirring up the bee's nest. Eventually, Thrush will put two and two together and realize the information is coming from the prison compound."

"We'll do our best, sir. I would guestimate another week at the most. Mr. Kuryakin has finished about 25 percent of the files' alterations, and I've almost completed copying the ones of interest to us."

"Just be careful." A genuine concern showed through the monitor of Solo's computer screen. "If you sense that this affair has been compromised in any way, shape, or form, I'm ordering you, Mr. Kuryakin, and Dr. Zeinreich to abandon the prison compound post haste. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir."

* * * * *

Napoleon informed Luther Gunther he was back, then retreated into Gretchen's apartment to sleep. He was exhausted. Processing the films, transforming and relaying them took a large chunk of time. He did not trust anyone else to do the gruntwork, so he did it all himself. But working out of the hospital's satellite office had its perks. Marta Holtzman. They spent long periods of time together as well. Although highly pleasurable, his stay with Marta was not exactly restful.

The computer greeted Napoleon as he entered Gretchen's apartment. Next to it was the couch. Mr. Waverly's warning ran through his head as he turned the unit on and settled himself in the chair to put in a few hours' work before affording himself the luxury of sleep.

Losing track of time, his attention shifted from the computer monitor when he heard Gretchen walk up behind him.

"Ah, _güten morgan_ ," she said, tousling his hair. "You look mighty worn out. Spend time with Marta again?"

Napoleon chuckled and nodded. "How did you know."

"I'm perceptive." She walked into the kitchen. "Can I fix you something to eat?"

"Eat?" Napoleon looked at his watch, unaware of how much time had passed since he came back. "Uh, yes...thank you."

Gretchen cooked an elaborate breakfast of omelets, with freshly squeezed orange juice and toasted slices of her homemade bread. As the food cooked, Solo's stomach growled, reminding him of exactly how hungry he really was.

"Mr. Waverly recommends we finish up as quickly as possible," Napoleon said, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "UNCLE has started taking action on our information, and he feels they may begin realizing where the leak is."

"Isn't Illya safeguarding the file dates?" she asked, setting the table for three.

"Yes. But Thrush Central knows when this computer was installed, and even with the dates unchanged, they may begin to suspect us." Napoleon noticed the table settings and realized that Gretchen was expecting Illya as well.

He radioed one of his guards to bring Kuryakin in for "questioning."

As the door Petros opened to the door to admit Kuryakin and Gunther, trails of Illya's complaining about being disturbed on his only day of rest wafted through, getting louder until he actually entered and the door shut behind him.

"Good morning Napoleon, Gretchen," he greeted as he walked into the kitchen. He stopped at the stove, inspecting the omelets. He turned and kissed Gretchen on the cheek. "Looks delectable." He turned towards Napoleon and raised his eyebrows. "Well, you look like the dog dragged you in."

"It's the 'cat', Illya, not dog," Napoleon responded wearily.

"Whatever. Spent time with Marta, I presume."

Napoleon chuckled and shook his head.

"Have I become that predictable?"

"Yes," both Illya and Gretchen answered in unison.  
  
Over breakfast, Napoleon briefed Illya on his conversation with Mr. Waverly. Illya understood the urgency of completing the work as quickly as possible, avoiding any unsightly errors. Illya agreed to alter files while Napoleon took time to catch up on sleep.

Solo presumed he would sleep on the couch, but Gretchen offered her bedroom. It would be quieter and more comfortable. He thanked her, then got into a pair of his own pajamas and slid beneath her covers. Sleep took him only moments later.  
  
Illya spent the remainder of morning altering files, meticulously aware of security codes, alert systems, and keeping file dates unchanged. The quantity was massive. Several more had been added since the last time he worked on the computer.

He wondered how the new data was obtained. After checking it out, it was all recent and apparently correct. Illya delved deeper into the source and juncture of entry into Thrush's computer system. Paris. Which probably meant UNCLE's Paris office had a mole.

The only connection Kuryakin had with UNCLE was through Gretchen, who worked through her messages with Marta. He asked Gretchen to relay a message to New York, asking Mr. Waverly to arrange a complete security check of the Paris Office.

While on the phone with Marta, Gretchen found out about her friend's past few days with Napoleon. Illya couldn't help but overhear parts of their discussion, wondering which sections were code, and which were personal. He found humor in their "girl talk," thankful that men did not usually carry on foolishly like that. Gretchen joked again about the "Holtzman Theory." That was the third time he had heard the expression. His eyebrows raised. Was she talking about him as well?

"All right, Gretchen. I give up," Illya said quietly when Gretchen hung up the phone. "Just what is the 'Holtzman Theory'?"

"Are you sure you haven't read about it?" she asked, teasing.

"Positive."

She obliged him with an explanation...why she used the phrase when Napoleon commented about the increased stimulation in whirlpools the first time Illya relaxed in her jacuzzi.

"He assumed I didn't know the whole story."

"What story?" Illya asked.

"You honestly don't know, do you?" Gretchen was surprised. "Don't men pride themselves on boasting about their sexual conquests?"

"If Napoleon filled me in on all his dalliances, I would never have time to work," he chuckled. Then Illya paused, looking up from the computer monitor. "You mean he and Marta...?

Gretchen nodded.

"...in the hospital?"

Another nod.

"...in the whirlpool?"

Yet another.

Illya shook his head in disbelief. "Yup. Quintessential Solo," he muttered, returning his attention to the monitor.

Gretchen moved close to him, pressing herself against his back and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She kissed his neck.

"I'm working," he said softly. He squirmed a little, making a meager attempt to get out of her embrace.

"I know." Her voice was soft and close to his ear. "Any chance of you taking a break?"

"Not now, Gretchen. I'm on a roll." Illya remained engrossed with the computer.

"Can I make an appointment?"

Illya smiled and chuckled. "Check with my secretary."

"I already have."

"And what did she say?"

"Tonight...oh, eight-ish...you're free."

"She should know." Illya stopped typing and turned around. He stood up and wrapped both arms around her. "I love it when you play hard-to-get," he murmured as he kissed her.

Illya's hands roamed up and down her back, his right hand eventually nesting inside the waistband of her jeans.His fingers slipped under her panties on the bare skin of her bottom, pulling her hips closer to him. He was already stimulated. Her first touch excited him, stirring his hormones. Illya could not remember the last time a woman had this effect on him.

Gretchen unfastened his jeans and fondled his erect penis then unzipping her own. Illya slid his hand over the soft hair on her groin, fingering the moist, tender areas beneath. He kissed her passionately and carefully lowered her to the floor. They quickly undressed each other and began making love with an urgency as if it would be their last time together, holding each other when they were spent, relishing the moment.

After their tryst, they washed up and redressed. Illya returned to the computer and Gretchen went into the office to complete unfinished work.

* * * * *

As usual, one of Von Koeinghoffer's guards sat by the door. This one, Rolf Reuger, was obviously new. He looked bored to distraction with his latest assignment. Gretchen asked Reuger if he needed a break. Immediately, he accepted her invitation and left the office to smoke a few cigarettes outside. She was surprised to see Josef working at his desk.

In Chalkler's opinion, her track record had tarnished in the past few weeks. Absence. Lateness. Distraction. He blamed Erich Von Koeinghoffer and he now bore jealous disdain for the man who was once his friend and mentor.

"Well, this is an unexpected surprise," he stated flatly. "I never thought I'd be graced with your presence this afternoon."

"I just wanted to finish up some paperwork," she said sweetly, ignoring his sarcasm.

She opened her typewriter and began clicking on the keys, copying handwritten correspondence from a yellow legal pad. The silence was deadly, but Gretchen ignored it and kept on working.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Chalkler finally asked. The silence was broken.

"What's that?"

"Erich's...hmmm, how could I put this delicately...playing around." Josef's remark got her attention.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, be realistic, Gretchen. You know how he operates." Chalkler walked over to her desk, hoping to talk to her like a Dutch uncle. "He generally requires more than one woman to meet his needs. Don't you wonder where he goes when he leaves you?"

"Not really," she answered innocently. "I'm making no demands on him, just as he's making none on me."

"You mean to tell me that if he saw you in bed with another man, he wouldn't raise hell and kill the unfortunate bastard on the spot?"

"I can't predict what he would do, Josef." Gretchen paused. "And you're assuming he's the only one with an agenda."

Josef stopped talking, taken aback by her remark.

"You have an agenda?"

"Of course I do. Do you honestly think I want to be stuck here for the rest of my life. No offense, Josef, but this is a dead-end position in Thrush. How many months have I been here? The only times a little excitement comes my way is when an UNCLE agent arrives. And even with the one we now have, it's pretty damned boring."

Gretchen gave Josef a few moments for her comments to register.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Josef, but a lady can go stir crazy here. At least Erich offers me an occasional diversion."

A rather large smile grew on Chalkler's lips. "You're using him, aren't you? You little bitch."

Gretchen smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders a little.


	11. Chapter 11

Napoleon woke slightly after 6 pm, refreshed after a sound sleep. He showered and dressed and emerged from the bedroom looking dapper as ever. He walked over to Illya who still typed away on the computer.

"Make much progress?" Solo asked, looking over his partner's shoulder.

The screen displayed a photo of Sybil Tessier, one of UNCLE's Canadian undercover agents. Her current statistics indicated that she was now under four feet tall. Identifying characteristics: halitosis, stuttering, and a wandering left eye. Napoleon cringed.

"I'm getting punchy, Napoleon," Illya giggled. "This can actually be fun. You should see what I've done to you."

"l'lI take your word for it."

"On a more serious note, I've discovered a possible security leak in Paris. I had Gretchen notify New York via 'Martagram'. Would you follow through for me the next time you contact Mr. Waverly personally?"

"Aye, aye, Illya."

Illya looked up and grinned. "I finally found out what the Holtzman Theory was. You never told me about that one either."

"Again, you never asked."

"Not much room in that hospital whirlpool, was there. I'm surprised you didn't sustain further injury to your ribs."

"I was in good hands," Napoleon smiled. "...and under doctor's orders."

"Among other things."

"And who was I to question them?"

"Well, Napoleon...enough of your sex life. I'm ready for dinner."

"Am I to assume you'd like me to order out again?" Solo asked.

"Unless you plan to cook. I'm all thumbs in the kitchen. You of all people should know that."

"Aah, yes. I've had many a-burnt dinner at your apartment." Napoleon pulled out his Thrush communicator and called Rolf Reuger outside the apartment door.

"Yes?" asked the voice on the other end.

"Is Fraulein Fiedler in the office?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please ask her what she wants for dinner?"

Reuger held his hand over the receiver and asked, returning seconds later with an order for her and one for Chalkler as well.

"I don't recall extending an invitation to him...but since he has his heart set on dining with me, how could I refuse. Consider it done." Napoleon de-activated the communicator and smiled. "Sometimes I really love this job."

* * * * *

Josef Chalkler was surprisingly jovial at dinner. The pall which hung over him for the past few weeks had lifted and he now felt as though he had "one leg up" on Erich. He now knew Gretchen's little secret, and it amused him that Von Koeinghoffer was clueless. As a result, he was lighthearted and animated, and a bit more physical with Gretchen. He put his arm around her several times, patted her hand, nudged her with his elbow...things he considered taboo hours before. Von Koeinghoffer didn't know what to make of it, and tried to make light of it. So far the charade was working. Napoleon played Erich to the hilt, almost too convincingly.

Illya remained silent, as usual, maintaining the look of a guilty man who had been coerced to betray his organization to keep himself alive in a hostile environment. He appeared physically uncomfortable in the presence of Von Koeinghoffer, Chalkler, and Gretchen.

"Back to work, Kuryakin," Erich announced when he finished dessert.

Illya nodded silently and avoid eye contact with anyone.

Chalkler offered Gretchen a hand cleaning up; he really wanted to hang around, to see exactly what type of information Kuryakin was giving him. Napoleon and Illya decided to humor him.

Erich took his usual seat at the computer and Illya obediently sat on the chair facing him. The Thrush chief tapped a few keys on the keyboard and a screen came up with a large "UNCLE-Milan, Italy" written at the top in a 24 point font. Beneath it was information pertaining to the headquarter's location, access, personnel, and security systems.

"You were telling me about entry security codes when we stopped. Continue." Von Koeinghoffer quietly demanded.

Illya seemed reluctant to talk, eyeing Chalkler suspiciously.

"Speak. I just fed you. Don't make me regret it. What are the codes."

"Even if I give them to you," Kuryakin started quietly, "...they may have been changed by now."

"Give them to me anyway."

"The...uh," Illya looked at Chalkler, quickly diverting his glance when he saw the gaze returned, "keypad code is '120741'."

Von Koeinghoffer typed the information into the computer.

"What happens if it's entered incorrectly?" Von Koeinghoffer questioned.

"You have a second chance."

"And if you screw up a second time?"

"You have four chances. Then security comes."

"Hmmm. Interesting."

Chalkler walked behind Erich and viewed the screen for himself, reading the information pertaining to UNCLE's Milan headquarters. Unbeknownst to him, it was all fictitious, a pre-planned red herring.

"Kuryakin gave up all that?" Josef asked, surprised at Von Koeinghoffer's success.

"Yes. Plus much more. He's been kept safe and well fed in return for his cooperation," Erich gloated. He reached over and pinched Illya's cheek. "He may even be getting a little pudgy." Illya turned his head away.

Chalkler looked at his watch. Eight thirty. "I'm going out for the evening. Unless any of you would care to join me..." he looked at Gretchen, "...I'll be on my way."

"What the hell was all that about?" Napoleon asked Gretchen once her door closed.

"He's no longer insanely jealous of you," she responded.

Illya shot her a glance, wondering what on earth she could have done or said to achieve that.

"You're not..." Solo began.

"Not what? Becoming too friendly with him? No, no," she began. "Josef was about to warn me that you were still playing the field, so I explained to him I didn't care...that I was using you to advance my position in Thrush. He thought that was hilarious. He even called me a 'bitch'!" She sounded proud.

"Just be careful, Gretchen. You shouldn't take him all that lightly. He's a very dangerous man, who probably still has a strong desire for you," Napoleon warned.

"Maybe you should strike the fear of God in him," Illya suggested. "He did get a little overly physical with Gretchen this evening."

"I'll make a mental note of it," Napoleon said. "After I finish with these files."

Napoleon returned to work copying the remaining Thrush documents, hoping to finish it all that night. The end of their task would be for Illya to finish augmenting the UNCLE files, then their job was done.

Illya and Gretchen played several games of backgammon on the kitchen table while Napoleon worked. They decided ahead of time to play for games won, not points. After three wins apiece, neither wanted to play a tie-breaker and decided to let the score stand as it was.

"I missed my 8 pm appointment," Illya said quietly.

"Oh, that's right," Gretchen said, looking surprised. "But your secretary said something about you making contact yourself during the afternoon."

"True, true."

"Well, I could check to see if the lady in question would be amenable to a slight change in time."

"You would do that for me?"

"Of course."

Gretchen bid Napoleon a good night as she passed him on the way to her bedroom. Illya was close behind.

"I'll see you in the morning, Illya," Napoleon said before his partner could say a word. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gretchen grab Illya's wrist and pull him along with her. The last thing Napoleon heard was a feminine giggle as the door closed. The quiet in the apartment gave him the opportunity to finish copying the files.

**Monday, 1 September**

By the time the first ray of sun made it through the window, Napoleon was copying his final files. Proud of his accomplishment in record time, he sat back and stretched, then wandered into the kitchen to fill himself a bowl of ice cream. The sound of someone walking through the living room caught his attention. Illya. Awake at...Napoleon checked his watch...6:35 am?

"You're the last person I expected to see up at this hour," Napoleon said, standing up to get his friend a bowl.

"I smelled ice cream," he responded wryly.

Napoleon brought the second bowl to the table and pushed the container of chocolate chip ice cream towards his partner. Illya dished out two scoops for himself and then licked the remainder off his fingers.

"Well, my friend. I finished the files," Napoleon boasted. "I may never be able to see again, but the files are completed."

"Aah, what we do for the good of mankind," the blond Russian sighed, savoring the sweetness of the ice cream as it melted down his throat. "I'm almost three quarters finished. With all the changes I still need to make, I estimate it taking me at least two more days of working seven to eight hours a day. They have a ton of information on us. So far, the Paris leak hasn't been stopped. More work is probably slated to be entered."

"I'm afraid that if you stay here for more than one night at a time, we're going to raise suspicion."

"That's coming from Von Koeinghoffer, the omnipotent?" Illya chuckled. "I rather like it here."

"Unfortunately, the real Von Koeinghoffer wouldn't be this covetous of Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon reminded him. "He would use him and then send him back to the wolves for a while."

"Of course, only to make me realize how much easier it is to spill my guts than live in squalor." Illya nodded. "I assume that means I go back to the trenches today."

"Do you mind?"

"Absolutely." Illya paused, finishing the remains of his ice cream. "But duty calls."  
  
Before leaving, Illya returned to Gretchen's bed to say goodbye. She was wrapped in the covers oblivious to the fact that he had left. He removed his bathrobe before crawling beneath the blankets next to her warm, naked body, and wrapped his arms around her.

She stiffened.

"Your hands are cold!" she mumbled.

"I just had some ice cream," Illya cooed into her ear.

"And you didn't bring me any?" She snuggled against him.

"Sorry. But perhaps I can offer you something even better."

"Better than ice cream?"

Illya rolled on his back, pulling Gretchen on top of him. She was sleepy and limp, letting the full weight of her body rest on his. They kissed. Illya's hands caressed her back and ass. Gretchen gradually woke up as her senses were stimulated with his touches, and she returned his affection with caresses of her own.

Gradually, she moved backwards so her head could rest on his chest. Gretchen teased his nipples by touching them so lightly quivers traveled through his body. Illya's eyes closed tightly and his entire body responded. She moved further back and ran her tongue over the nipples, causing him to react with more intense tremors. Both could feel his penis becoming erect as it responded to Gretchen's foreplay. Again, Gretchen moved backwards one final time, bringing her head to his groin. She took his penis in her mouth and sucked, twirling her warm, wet tongue around its shaft then up to the head.

Moans sounded from his throat as Gretchen continued sucking on his cock, humming to create gentle vibrations to increase the stimulation. Illya reached for her, pulling her back towards him, kissing her, tasting his own moistness as they kissed.

Her body was an opiate, seductive and intoxicating; he wanted every drop of her.

Her weight shifted as she raised herself to straddle him. Gretchen's trim, athletic legs surrounded his hips before mounting him and riding him until both of them felt their release.

After their climaxes, Gretchen flopped next to Illya, babbling something about "...who needed ice cream anyway..."  
  
Illya told Gretchen the plans for him to return to the prison's population. The realistic side of her understood, but the selfish side would have preferred he stay in bed with her for the rest of the morning. He got up, showered and dressed, and ate a proper breakfast before going outside into the warm September morning sun to dig a foundation.

Napoleon left the compound shortly after Illya returned to his labors. He planned to get the remaining films processed and sent to New York by UNCLE courier. This was the end of the Thrush files he was able to copy. The rest would be up to Illya to finish. His partner was far more adept at working his way through the computer system and tampering with the UNCLE files than he. It made sense to allow an extra few days for him to finish his work before ending the affair.  
  
Luckily September brought with it cooler temperatures. The summer heat wave had finally lifted, bringing in more moderate weather. The new building's foundation was delayed because of the blistering temperatures, but now, the work was back in full swing.

Illya felt better than he had since returning to the prison. A little more than three weeks had passed since Napoleon rescued him and in all honesty, he knew his recuperation time had been cut short. His strength was returning, making it easier to do manual labor than when he first arrived.

Rolf Reuger stayed behind to monitor Kuryakin. Chalkler and Kaufmann resented him being there, but Von Koeinghoffer demanded he stay to make sure Kuryakin's current "conditioning" was not being compromised.

The lunch whistle sounded precisely at noon. The prisoners laid down their shovels and headed to the dining hall. Illya saw Reuger watching from a distance and assumed that after the last episode with Kaufmann trying to prevent him from eating, Von Koeinghoffer's guard would be joining them inside.

As Illya entered the dining hall, two of Kaufmann's guards rushed him and forced him to sit down at the table. Kaufmann appeared carrying a piece of rubber belting, about the width and thickness of a shaving strop. One guard grabbed Kuryakin's hair and forced his head down on the table while he straightened out his left arm, flattening that against the table as well. The second guard did the same with Illya's right arm, this time, making sure the palm was up. The other prisoners were ushered into line to get their food.

"Reuger will be here in a moment or two," Kaufmann snarled. He raised his arm and beat the palm of Illya's right hand with the rubber strop. The agent's knuckles were driven into the table. A second, then third blow followed. The guard holding down his head pulled it upright and Kaufmann moved close to the UNCLE agent's face. "When Reuger comes in, you may look like you're eating, but if any food makes it down your gullet, you'll regret every morsel." The pact was sealed with two more blows.

Illya's face broke out in a cold sweat. He pulled against the guards' holds, only to have his palm struck again.

A third guard rushed over with a bucket of ice water. The "right hand man" dunked Illya's throbbing hand into the bucket to immediately reduce the signs of swelling or bruising. The cold water increased the pain rather than anesthetize it. Illya was unable to pull away and the guard held the hand in place until a fourth guard signaled that Reuger was on his way.

The right hand man removed the bucket while the two other guards brought Illya to his feet and into the food line. Reuger stopped at the door to observe what was going on, and from his perception, all was well. Illya was in line to get his food. Kaufmann's guards were standing about. Once Kuryakin was settled at the table with his tray before him, Reuger left and the tray was immediately removed.  
  
Illya had difficulty working when the prisoners returned after lunch. His right hand didn't have the strength to hold and lift the shovel. Throughout the afternoon, Kaufmann watched him like a hawk, looking for any reason to correct and discipline him. To Kuryakin's surprise, the prisoners came to his assistance. There was always one of them nearby trying to disguise the UNCLE agent's inability to work.

  
The dinner whistle sounded and Kaufmann refused to let him eat again, repeating his lunchtime threat. The same two guards held him down while Kaufmann beat the palm of his hand repeatedly, the same third guard brought over the iced water and the same fourth guard kept alert for Reuger.

"I'm hungry!" Illya hissed to Kaufmann before the beating began. "How do you expect me to work if I don't eat?"

"That's your problem, Kuryakin. Not mine."

Reuger made the same mistake as before, leaving once he assumed everything was in order.

Illya cradled his injured hand against his chest while the other prisoners ate. The food, regardless of its poor quality and taste, looked and smelled wonderful to him. He even considered risking more abuse to sneak some past his lips, but the throbbing in his hand brought him back to his reality.

The men filed out of the dining hall when the meal was finished. Illya still held his sore hand against his chest, but one of the abusive guards motioned for him to lower it when he was in Reuger's line of vision. Obediently, Illya did.

* * * * *

  
By 7 pm, the prisoners were back in their quarters. The Siani brothers continued their card game, still battling that the other was a cheat. Some of the men read, others sat around and talked quietly. Illya laid down in his bed and curled up to sleep.

The lack of food was taking its toll. The agent's stomach pained for something to eat, but he could get beyond the hunger. Lethargy was setting in as well as a headache.

His right hand throbbed. He tried slowly opening and closing his hand to gently stretch the muscles back to normal, but each time, the pain stopped him and the fingers recoiled to close around the injured palm. Massage was next, but the tenderness made that difficult as well. Illya gave up and tried to sleep.  
  
A rough hand pulling at his hair woke Illya from a light slumber. The lights were still on. The Siani brothers were still playing cards. It was before lights' out. A groggy Kuryakin looked up only to see the Thrush guards hauling him out of the bunk and forcing him to stand before he had a chance to react. Kaufmann removed the belt from his waistband and moved around the back of the UNCLE agent. The same two guards who held him before were holding him again while Kaufmann beat the back of his thighs with the belt.

"Your work this afternoon was inept and unacceptable," the disciplinarian reprimanded as he struck. "Shoddy. I assume it will be better tomorrow."

"You sonofabitch," Illya seethed, struggling against the two strong guards holding him.

Kaufmann raised his hand to strike again, but stopped when the lookout informed him that Reuger was coming.

Kuryakin was pushed back into his bunk and ordered to look as though he was sleeping.

Rolf Reuger came in to see Kaufmann and his guards checking under the prisoners' mattresses for weapons, not an unusual occurrence. The guard came to Illya's bed and "woke" him, asking him to move. He did. Reuger mistook Illya's difficulty moving for grogginess and never realized his charge was injured. Von Koeinghoffer's guard nodded in satisfaction and left.

After Reuger's departure, Kaufmann asked one of his guards to hand him the syringe and vial. Illya's eyes widened at the sight of the transparent green drug and needle. At the precise moment when he was within range of Kaufmann, Illya sprung at him to attack.

The syringe fell to the floor and broke, but the vial of the venomous drug remained tightly contained in Kaufmann's fist. The guards were upon him like fleas on a dog, pulling him off their boss. They raised their fists to strike, however Kaufmann warned them not to.

"I don't want him bruised and bloody. We were told to keep our hands off him, remember?" Kaufmann warned. "Turn him around!"

Illya was pushed face first against a wall and restrained. Kaufmann found another syringe and filled it part way with the drug.

"My friend refined the formula slightly. This will probably be more effective than the last time," the disciplinarian sneered as he injected the contents of the syringe into Illya's arm. The guards let him go. "Good night, Herr Kuryakin"

Kaufmann and his guards exited, leaving a deadly silence in their wake. Illya looked around at the other prisoner who were all at a loss for words. They were completely clueless at what just transpired.

Kuryakin started sweating almost immediately. His legs were shaky and he wasn't sure how long they would support his weight, so he made his way back to his bunk. He sat on the edge of the bed, but quickly laid down and faced the wall when the drug started taking effect.

He was trembling. It had only been moments since the drug was administered but the shaking was already beginning. The pain was increasing in increments like before, but only at a faster pace. No one in the room spoke. Even the Siani brothers stopped arguing. They all watched the UNCLE agent's reaction to the injection.

Geoffrey Knowles sat down next to him in an attempt to help. He placed his hand on Illya's shoulder, but the sensation was not pleasant and the Russian shrugged him away.

"I'm sorry," Kuryakin said trying to maintain his composure, "but the...drug makes me...hypersensitive." Illya had trouble talking. The words were becoming garbled and almost unintelligible.

"Is there anything we can do?" Geoffrey's voice boomed.

Illya's right arm instinctively covered his ear to block out the sound. "No."

The prisoners kept their voices quiet all evening, hoping to ease Illya's discomfort the best they could. Over the next hour they watched him writhe on the mattress and listened to him moan in pain. His legs twitched. His right hand was pressed close to his chest while he quietly rocked himself with the waves of pain. As time passed, it became more and more difficult to breathe and by the time Kaufmann returned a short while later, Illya was soaked in his own sweat and crying out.

"Do you have anything to tell me?" Kaufmann said calmly, grabbing the neckline of Kuryakin's wet T-shirt.

The sound of Illya's own scream made him shake more. He could not formulate any words. Kaufmann took out another partially filled syringe of the transparent green drug and held Illya's arm, ready to inject it.

"Are you sure?"

When the disciplinarian didn't receive an answer, he slid the tip of the needle into Illya's upper arm. The UNCLE agent yelped only once as what felt like a six-inch nail slid into his arm. He was afraid to say a word, to move at all, afraid that would prolong the injection. Kaufmann took his time, amused at the distress it was causing. He stood up and silently left when he was done.

Again, Kaufmann left an uncanny silence in his wake.

As the moments ticked away, the already unbearable agony increased. The screams became long animalistic wails, interspersed with obscure, garbled dialogue which eventually reverted to his native Russian. The deafening sound reverberated through Illya's head and he couldn't lower the volume. The lights in the room blinded him even through his closed eyes; covering his face with an arm made little difference. His body twisted into a fetal position to ease the pain in his belly, but that made barely a dent in his distress.

The labored breaths turned to gasps, then shallow panting.

Then silence.

The wails and screams ceased. The only sound in the room was Illya's irregular panting. With each short, sharp inhalation, Illya's chest shuddered with the pain created by the act of breathing.

Sunny Lance came near and reached out his hand to touch Illya. The pained, twisted look on the Russian's face alerted him to the fact that something was desperately wrong. Illya's teeth were bared with the pain, his hands clenched in tight fists held beneath his chest. He shook. But he made no sounds.

"Illya..." Lance whispered.

The agent's slight body reacted to the quiet sound of his name by freezing for several seconds and wincing.

The lights remained lit past the customary 9:30 lights' out. The prisoners knew it was one more sadistic blow against Kuryakin.

A chill ran through Illya. His sweat-drench body cooled itself down and now Kuryakin was unable maintain his body heat. No one dared touch him or they could have felt the ice cold hands and feet. He lost all ability to talk, to communicate his need for a blanket. The trembling increased to tremors.

* * * * *

The sound of a door opening broke the silence.

"It's almost 11. Why are the lights still on? " a robust voice asked.

Illya froze with the deafening sound and winced with the pain that pounded inside his head. He felt the vibrations of footsteps coming his way.

"Kuryakin?" the same voice boomed.

Through blurred vision, Illya recognized Erich Von Koeinghoffer. He turned his head away and shut his eyes. A hand rested on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" Von Koeinghoffer's voice echoed through his head.

Kuryakin pulled himself into a tighter ball and stiffened, never saying a word or crying out. Napoleon had no idea how dire Illya's condition was and reached out to turn his partner over.

"Don't do that," a voice from the next bunk warned.

Geoffrey Knowles looked around the bedpost and stopped Von Koeinghoffer before he touched Illya a second time. "Herr Kaufmann drugged him."

That was all Napoleon needed to hear.

"Gunther," Von Koeinghoffer spoke into his communicator. "Get Fraulein Fiedler immediately. Tell her Kuryakin's been drugged again. She'll know what to bring."

He deactivated the communicator and turned his attention to Illya again.

"How long ago?" Von Koeinghoffer asked Knowles.

"Some time after 7."

"Then Kaufmann gave him more of the stuff," Leland Pfizer added quietly from a bunk across the room.

No one else spoke. Erich Von Koeinghoffer was not exactly a welcomed guest in their eyes.

Napoleon so desperately wanted to hold his partner and comfort him, tell him that help was on the way, but from Gretchen told him about the drug, any physical contact was out of the question. Besides, Illya's conditioning would have negated any familiarity with Solo, making the blond agent more fearful and agitated.

Gretchen ran in moments later carrying the green canister of anesthesia and her medical bag. Without a word she moved as close to Kuryakin as she could and spoke with the softest voice she had.

"Illya, can you hear me?" she spoke in German.

There was no change in his demeanor. She tried a second time in Russian and he squinted at her out of the corner of his eye, never moving his head.

"I'm going to check your pulse," she said, realizing that he probably had no idea what she was talking about. Her fingers felt the pulse of his carotid artery and timed it at 150 beats per minute.

Gretchen shook her head. "He's practically catatonic."

She picked up the gas canister and held the mask over his nose and mouth while turning opening the valve with her other hand. Illya tried turning his head away even further, but the gas finally overwhelmed him as his eyes closed and he fell unconscious.

Almost immediately, his panting returned to the pattern of regular breathing and his heart rate lowered. His body relaxed except for his hands which still shook.

From her medical bag she took out a plastic medicine bottle and removed a test strip. She opened his mouth and took a saliva sample on the end of the strip. The white area turned dark purplish black.

"Christ," she muttered. "He's off the damned chart!"

"What chart?" Von Koeinghoffer asked quietly as Gretchen turned Illya over on his back.

"I found that the drug shows up in saliva as well, so I made these strips to gauge the amount in his system," she began to explain. "It ranges from clear to a reddish purple. The darkness of the color indicates how much of the drug is still in him. He had been given more than I ever anticipated."

"Can you do without me for a few minutes, Fraulein Fiedler?" Von Koeinghoffer asked.

"Ja."

Napoleon left the room and headed to Kaufmann's quarters with two of his personal guards, leaving one to assist Gretchen.

Gretchen pressed Illya's belly and abdomen for swelling. Finding none, she asked the guard to help her roll the Russian on to his stomach. His back was clear of injuries. Her hands slipped around his body to unfasten his jeans.

"He had just a few whacks the back of his legs, Fraulein," Peter Hopfsnagle offered. "But you might want to check his right hand."

Gretchen nodded in thanks and felt the backs of both legs. Minimal swelling.

"He hasn't eaten all day either," Peter added.

Illya's right hand still twitched. Gretchen tried flexing the fingers, feeling the muscles' resistance. She felt the heat which radiated from his palm, although there was virtually no bruising. The knuckles on the back of his hand were covered with dried blood. His left hand was cold as ice.

"I need a warm blanket," she said as she looked up. "Are there any around?"

"No," Hopfsnagle replied coldly. "Herr Von Koeinghoffer removed them in early April."

Gretchen asked the guard to get a blanket from the infirmary, and when he returned, they wrapped Kuryakin in it.

The guard carried Illya to Von Koeinghoffer's car while Gretchen collected her equipment. By the time they were ready to leave, Napoleon joined them.

"Where were you?" Gretchen asked as the driver sped through the open gate.

"Assisting in a scientific experiment."

The risks of keeping Kuryakin unconscious with the gas far outweighed the risk of keeping him awake and in constant debilitating pain. The drug levels were so high that she was unable to administer her antidote at his bedside, in fear that his body could not tolerate the shock. As soon as he would begin waking, Gretchen gassed him a little more so he could rest comfortably.

Once in the hospital, Dr. Abramson joined her. Gretchen demanded and got control of his case, and immediately began working to slowly neutralize the drug. She ran an intravenous line to begin hydrating Illya and injected a small amount of the antidote in the fluid bag. Although there was no scientific data supporting her theory, she guestimated how much of her antidote would be sufficient to start ridding his body of the drug without shocking his system.

His clothing was cut away and the two doctors examined him. Heart monitor contacts were placed on his chest and the lines attached to the monitor. The steady blips indicated that his heart was relaxed and beating at a normal pace.

Hunger. Dehydration. Slight bruising of the legs. Injured Hand. None of which should have caused the pain Illya was experiencing when Gretchen came into the prisoners' quarters, even with a regular dose of the drug.

A neurologist was consulted to see if he could determine whether or not there would be any type of permanent damage. At the moment, he was unable to give a conclusive prognosis, but suggested he watch Illya closely.

Periodically, Gretchen drew a small quantities of blood and saliva samples, noting the time it was taken. She planned to compare them later for accuracy.

After two hours of unconsciousness, Dr. Abramson questioned Illya's well being. The saliva tests indicated that the small quantities of her antidote were working and ridding his body of the drug. The blackish-purple had lightened to a dark purple, still too dark for her to read accurately.

"If he wakes now, he'll still be in a lot of pain," she protested.

"The longer you keep him unconscious, the slower he will metabolize the drug," Dr. Abramson countered, "and the longer it will take for him to rid of it completely."

Gretchen nodded, considering his imput, and agreed he was correct.

"I'll need to move him to a dark, quiet room," Gretchen requested, noting that the bright lights of the emergency room would be too stressful one he woke. She also requested a pair of loose hospital scrubs, hoping the soft fabric against his legs would cause less friction than the blanket.

Illya was taken to an observation room. The glass enclosed walls allowed him to be monitored without being seen. He was carefully lifted on to the bed. Reluctantly, Gretchen secured his left wrist with cushioned restraint, concerned that when he woke, he would try to remove the painful IV line.

The heart monitor's volume was muted and the lights were dimmed. Little by little, the gas wore off, waking Illya into an unwelcomed consciousness.

Gretchen stood by his pillow and spoke calming words very quietly in Russian. She watched the heart monitor like a hawk, aware that the spikes in pain caused his heart rate to increase. She tried stroking his forehead, but even the gentle fingers were painful so she stopped after seeing his reaction.

His moans were soft at first. Gretchen thought perhaps most of the drug had left his body and checked his saliva, but she was wrong. The strip showed still a deep purple so she hypothesized that as the drug's effects diminished, it would be in reverse order from how it took control of him. He was coming out of his catatonic state.

The soft words continued trying to calm him. Her voice, like before, was tranquilizing, mesmerizing.

"She's trying to hypnotize him," Dr. LeBan commented from behind the glass. "Fascinating. I'm curious to see how effective she'll be."

"You'll have a chance to find out," Dr. Abramson sighed. "There isn't much more she can do right now."

Napoleon watched silently.

They watched the changes as the drug's levels began to drop. Illya openly reacted to his hypersensitivity. His legs throbbed and the pains in his stomach increased. He pulled at the restraint, wanting to turn on his side.

She touched him softly on the shoulder, watching the heart monitor. No jump in heart rate.

Gretchen continued calming him with her voice. "I'm going to release your left arm and help you roll over," she said quietly in Russian.

Illya froze with he felt her hand on his left forearm, securing him near the IV's point of entry. His arm hurt from the shunt, reminding him of Kaufmann's second injection. Afraid to move even one iota he held his breath and lay still, shaking with the pain.

"Shhh, shhh, relax yourself a little," she murmured. "I'm going to help you get more comfortable."

Instinctively, his right hand tried to grab at the IV line. Gretchen held on the his right wrist as soon as he began. The hand injury hindered his grasp, making any movement awkward and painful. He howled in frustration.

"You need to leave the needle in, Illya."

Illya wildly shook his head and tried reaching for the shunt again, still screaming.

From the observation window, Napoleon felt helpless. He wanted to go into the observation room and help his partner, but he knew Illya would only perceive him as Erich Von Koeinghoffer and react with increased stress. The lump in his throat became larger when he saw Gretchen struggling with Illya, but felt slightly relieved when she was able to settle him down.

Lying on his right side made him more comfortable and he quieted slightly. Gretchen tested his saliva again, and when the results came out a slightly light shade of deep purple, she injected a little more of the antidote into the fluid bag.

"In a little while, I will be able to give you a full dose of the antidote," she assured him.

She sat on the side of his bed. "Would you like me to hold you for a while?"

Illya still could not formulate words, and she wasn't even sure if he understood a word she said. Slowly, she laid down next to him and placed his head on her shoulder. Then she brought his left arm across her chest to protect it from further attempts to remove the IV line.

The calming, hypnotic voice helped relax him, lull him into a calmer state. Periodically the pain would peak and his outcries would pierce the quietness. His fingers dug into her flesh like last time, looking for anything to help alleviate the sudden increase of pain.

After another saliva test, she injected more of the antidote into the fluid. The color was now a shade too dark of reddish purple for an entire dose. Soon.

Gretchen's assumptions were on target, and a very short while later, she was able to introduce an undiluted dose into the IV line. Within several minutes, there was a noticeable difference in Illya. The pain had subsided substantially, leaving him coherent.

The screams diminished into soft moans, unconsciously coming from deep inside his throat. He still shook slightly from the drug, but the majority of the pain was gone. Weakness from the drug's after effects made movement difficult.

"It looks like you're feeling better," Gretchen said in Russian.

Illya opened his eyes, squinting slightly with the remaining vestiges of the hypersensitivity. Gretchen was still alongside him, holding him.

Feebly, he nodded. He tried sitting, but gave up after one futile attempt.

"I feel so weak," he said in English. "Worse than last time."

"Kaufmann gave you two doses last night."

"I remember the first injection," he rasped with the dryness in his throat, "and I remember getting the second...but that's all." He shifted again, trying to sit up. Gretchen held on to him, keeping him down. "Have you been here all night?"

"Ja." A slight pause while she looked him over quickly. "Are you still in pain?"

"Just a little."

"Do you need something for it?"

Illya shook his head.

"Are you hungry or thirsty?"

"Just thirsty." Again, he tried sitting up.

"You need to stay still and rest, Illya." She brushed the damp hair out of his still-dilated eyes. "That drug knocked you for a loop. Don't fight your fatigue. What you really need now is sleep."

He smiled sheepishly. "Are you going to sleep with me?"

Gretchen blushed a little, knowing they were still being observed.

"In your dreams, Kuryakin," she chuckled. "But I will get you some water."

She stood up to get the water, but Illya pulled her back before she stepped away.

"Did I do that to you?" he asked, pointing to the small blood stains on the right side of her ribcage. Gretchen looked down at them, then raised her T-shirt, exposing four small punctures on her side. Fingernail size.

"Must have been. You were the only one with me last night," she mused.

"I'm...I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"It's not a problem, Illya. This shirt needed a little color anyway. Let me get your water."

Napoleon entered and passed her as she left.

"This is why I dislike getting involved with my co-workers!" she whispered as she passed Solo in the doorway.

"You look better than you did a few hours ago, partner," Napoleon said, sitting down next to Illya. The Russian tried getting up once more, but Solo stopped him. "I don't think so...not just yet."

Illya looked around, unfamiliar with his surroundings. "Where am I?"

"This is an observation room."

 _Shit!_ Illya thought. "And who's been observing me?"

"Dr. Abramson, Dr. LeBan, and me, primarily."

"Primarily? And who else?" Illya shifted.

"A few stray drunks off the street. They had to pay an entrance fee, though."

"Hmmm." Illya turned on his back. "Any chance of getting me into a regular room? Surely you can pull a few strings."

Gretchen came back with a cup of water.

"Well, here's your physician now. Ask her."


	12. Chapter 12

Illya was as uncomfortable in the hospital room as he was in the observation room. He wasn't in horrible pain, nor was he pain free. His head ached. The hypersensitivity still effected his sight and hearing, intensifying the effects of light and sound. His belly burned despite the light fare he was given to eat, which he consumed with no appetite at all.

Uncomfortable lying down, Kuryakin raised the head of the bed and brought his knees to his chest, folding into himself to fill the empty voids. He wrapped a blanket around his body trying to relieve himself of the cold, hollow, depressed feeling deep within. Maybe sleep would help.

In the floaty nether-land before sleep, his thoughts drifted back to his young childhood when he was often tired, hungry and alone. He ached for someone to comfort him and hold him tightly, perhaps stroke his hair and tell him that everything would be okay. It rarely happened. But sleep finally came.

A body displaced some of the empty space next to Illya. An arm wrapped around him and pulled him closer, waking him slightly. Illya mumbled something inaudible but settled back to sleep after recognizing the scent of this person. Napoleon.  
  
Illya slept for hours; the soundest sleep he'd had. Solo was still sitting next to him when he woke.

"Are you feeling any better?" Solo's concerned voice asked.

Illya shrugged. "I still feel wretched."

The blond agent tried straightening up. Once his body began responding to his mental orders, he moved to the large chair next to his bed. His body felt sticky and clammy from the profuse sweating over the past fourteen hours. "I need a shower."

"Are you hungry?"

"I honestly don't know, Napoleon. I don't feel like myself."

"You've been through alot. It took a while to flush the drug out of your system."

"I still have some of the after effects."

"And Gretchen said you will for a short time."

"How short?"

Napoleon chuckled. "If you were to ask her, I know she'd say she has inconclusive data ...so basically, no one knows."

"I guess that demotes me to guinea pig once more."

Solo rang for a nurse who arrived in record time. A middle aged woman with a cherubic face and figure came in to see what Illya needed.

"A shower," Kuryakin mumbled.

"That's not possible right now, Herr Kuryakin," she said, trying to coax him back into bed.

"Surely, Nurse..." Napoleon checked her badge, smiling, "...Schneider, something can be arranged." He oozed charm.

"Herr Kuryakin still has the IV line in his arm, and Dr. Zeinreich specified that he needs to keep it dry. He's very weak and a little unsteady at the moment." She kept trying to herd Illya out of the chair, he kept refusing.

"If you temporarily remove the line, that will give him the mobility to..."

"I can take the damned line out myself!" Illya fumed. He tried fumbling with the tape, but his injured fingers were too slow for Nurse Schneider.

"Ah...let me take responsibility for my partner. He's awfully hard to deal with if he doesn't get his way," Napoleon offered with an endearing smile.

"And how could I refuse then." Nurse Schneider's voice dripped with sarcasm. She removed the line and wrapped his forearm with a waterproof bandage before leaving the room.

Illya undressed and hurried into the bathroom before word was out that he defied Dr. Zeinreich's orders. The shower felt wonderful, washing away much of the misery he had just been through. He soaped and shampooed several times before Napoleon's warning signal - a series of knocks on the door - indicated that trouble was approaching.

Solo had stationed himself between the bathroom door and the room's entrance while Illya was in the shower. Presumably he was there as the early warning detection system if Gretchen was coming. But Illya knew the real reason Napoleon stood nearby was to make sure he didn't harm himself in the shower. He was weak and he knew it, and probably very foolish for attempting a shower by himself...but if felt so good.

Like a whirlwind, Gretchen stormed in the room.

"Are you crazy?" she admonished Napoleon.

Napoleon tried pulling his innocent choirboy look on her, but it didn't work.

"You know how stubborn he gets," Napoleon explained, trying to appeal to her sympathetic side. "He felt gross and disgusting after last night and needed to clean up a bit."

"Well thanks a lot!" Gretchen scowled.

Napoleon realized he was digging himself deeper into a hole. "No, no...I'm sorry. I didn't mean that you..."

"Oh, stop it!" she snapped. "He's really in no condition to be in a shower by himself and you know it."

Gretchen pushed by him and went into the bathroom. The mist from the hot water created a delightful steam.

"Have you lost your mind?" she asked through the shower curtain.

"Not yet, Gretchen," Illya answered flatly. His hand reached between the flaps of the curtain and grasped Gretchen's upper arm, pulling her fully dressed into the shower with him. She shrieked. "As you can see, I'm just fine."

After the shock of being drenched wore off, she shook her head and laughed. "I guess you are. But please be careful."

"Yes Fraulein." He kissed her forehead. "Thanks for staying with me last night."  
  
Napoleon brought Gretchen a pair of dry scrubs and several towels after her unexpected shower, eyeing her suspiciously as she took them from his hands. "You're getting soft, my dear," he said, clucking his tongue.

* * * * *

  
By evening, Illya's appetite returned with a vengeance. Napoleon and Gretchen joined him for dinner. After Gretchen left to finish her lab work, Illya complained he was still hungry.

"What else would you like?" Napoleon asked.

"Dessert."

"You've had dessert already."

Illya shrugged. "Then I'd like more. Are you going to get it?... or shall I plod through the halls looking pathetic as I make my way to the commissary for something else to eat?"

"You must have taken lessons from my mother," Napoleon chuckled.  
  
Napoleon returned with a newspaper under his arm and four colorful parfaits on a tray, each dessert beautifully layered with different flavors of ice cream and syrups.

"Are we expecting company?" Illya asked.

"Nope! One for me and three for you. That ought to do it."

After Illya wolfed down his third dessert, he settled raised the back of his bed and settled in. Napoleon took part of the newspaper, Illya the other.

"I need to contact Mr. Waverly shortly," Napoleon informed him.

"So you're meeting Marta?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You've never needed to announce a teleconference with Mr. Waverly in the past. I'm merely reading between the lines."

"She has a few hours to spare between 9 and 11."

"So she slotted you in?"

"For lack of a better term, yes."

"Well, be off then," Illya said, his head still buried in the newspaper. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

* * * * *

The short interlude with Marta was exhilarating. They met in her office and locked the door, immediately grasping and groping each other to get naked as soon as possible. They began on her couch but ended up rolling on to the floor, laughing in the process as their passion took them over.

Napoleon would have preferred spending the entire night with Marta, showering her with his love and affection, repeatedly making love after long, sensual periods of foreplay. He would have to adjust accordingly.

They were so well suited for each other. Neither asked for more than the moment, relishing each and every second they spent together, never making future plans. Both were sexual, carnal beings, lusting after one another when the opportunity arose for their bodies to merge. They would then part ways not knowing if and when they would be together again.  
  
By 11:30 pm, Napoleon was exhausted and went back to the empty bed in Illya's hospital room. His partner was soundly sleeping, oblivious to his entering. He showered and then changed into clean pajamas Illya was kind enough to leave folded on the sink, and finally climbed into bed.

By 1:15 am, Gretchen was exhausted and went back to the empty the bed in Illya's hospital room, only to find it occupied. Her immediate choices were the chair or sharing the small bed with Illya. The chair...the bed. The chair looked comfortable enough, so it won. She scrounged for an extra blanket and settled into the chair for a few hours' sleep.

By 2:30 am, the Nurse Schneider was making the last of her rounds and entered Illya's hospital room for her final check of the night. She stopped in the doorway at the sight of the three UNCLE agents cramped together in the small room. Illya was the only person not in a deep slumber.

"Did I wake you?" Nurse Schneider whispered as she checked his pulse.

"Not really," he whispered back. "I've had just a few minor disturbances."

"I'll be finished shortly, and hopefully this will be your last disturbance of the night."

By 4:30 am, Alexander Waverly was making a pit stop in Pützen to confer with Solo, Kuryakin, and Zeinreich, en route to Zurich after leaving the Berlin, Germany headquarters. He stopped in the doorway at the sight of his three UNCLE agents cramped together in the small room. He walked over to Illya, still the only person not in a deep slumber.

"Did I wake you?" Alexander Waverly whispered.

"Not really," he whispered back. "It's been like Grand Central Station in here." Illya adjusted himself into a sitting position. "Good morning, Sir."

Gretchen stirred and opened her eyes to see Mr. Waverly talking quietly with Illya. She silently commended herself for selecting the chair.

"Ah, good morning, Dr. Zeinreich. Sorry to disturb you so early in the morning," Mr. Waverly apologized. "But this works out well. I need to confer with the three of you about tying up the loose ends of this affair."

"I understand, Mr. Waverly," Gretchen said covering up a yawn.

Napoleon's quiet breathing caught her attention. She smacked her hand into his thigh to wake him.

"That wasn't a good idea, Gretchen," Illya said jumping up. He pulled her out of harm's way just as Napoleon lunged for her. Solo's weight toppled the chair so it fell over backwards, hitting the floor with a loud crash. "He hates being roused from his sleep that way."

Two orderlies and a nurse came running in the room at the sound. One of them turned on the light to see a stunned Napoleon Solo crouching in a defensive stance, looking around suspiciously. Illya looked amused, suppressing a laugh. Gretchen was still in shock and Mr. Waverly's expression remained impassive.

"It's quite all right," Mr. Waverly told the hospital staffers. "Just a slight overreaction."

Red faced, Napoleon stood and straightened up the chair, realizing he was the center of attention.

"Now that you're all awake, let me get on with the business at hand," Mr. Waverly began...

* * * * *

Mr. Waverly left shortly after briefing his agents. His instructions for bringing closure to the affair were exact. They had three more days inclusive to finish altering the files plan their exit. The UNCLE chief laid the parameters, the agents were to do the rest. By Thursday, Solo and Kuryakin were to be on a plane to New York.  
  
After Napoleon dressed and left the room, Gretchen found herself alone once again with Illya. Hopefully, they would have a little time together before another disturbance. Gretchen drew the curtain around his bed and got under the covers with him, still dressed in her scrubs.

They joked about what Alexander Waverly's face would have looked like had he interrupted them in a compromising position. Illya wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him, kissing her lips passionately. His leg twisted around hers to bring her even closer. He rolled with her in the small bed, stiffening slightly when their weight pressed against his right hand.

He released his hold on her and slid his hand from under them, rolling on to his back. Gretchen held it and probed the muscles and flesh on his palm, feeling the heat which still radiated from the injury. She flexed the fingers back slowly, feeling the muscles' resistance to her touch.

"I'd like a physical therapist to help you with that," Gretchen advised, concerned that the hand still ached. "I'll set up an appointment before we leave today."

"Not for a little while, I presume," he smiled. "I doubt they've clocked in this early in the morning."

Illya embraced Gretchen again and snuggled. Then kissed. And stroked and touched. In too short a time, Illya stopped abruptly.

"What's wrong?" Gretchen asked, confused. "Are my hands cold or something?"

Illya shook his head. "I'm not feeling anything."

His comment took Gretchen by surprise. "What do you mean by 'anything'?"

Blushing slightly, Illya explained that he wasn't physically aroused, that usually he would have had an erection by now. "Nothing seems to be working at the moment."

Gretchen slid her hand under his pajamas to touch his genitals. His discomfort was apparent.

"Don't patronize me, Gretchen," he said, pulling her hand away.

"I wouldn't do that. This is purely professional."

Gretchen got up off the bed and took a closer look at him. Illya was extremely uncomfortable, protesting her every touch. FInally she stopped.

"Knock it off, Kuryakin," she said impatiently.

"Well...just be quick."

"That's a first."

After a few excruciatingly long moments, Gretchen finished and pulled the waistband of his pajamas back up.

"Everything seems fine physically, Mr. Kuryakin," she explained in her most professional tone. "I deduce that the after effects of the drug have effected your central nervous system marginally. And let's face it, when your body has to repair itself, what do you think it's going to do first? Brain? Heart? Lungs? I somehow feel that the penis is rather low down on the priority list."

"But it will...uh...eventually..."

"Get hard again?" She smiled. "I sure as hell hope so." Gretchen bent over and kissed him on the lips. "I wouldn't worry, Illya. You'll be back in the saddle in no time at all."

* * * * *

The three agents left through one of Pützen Hospital's private exits. They had less than 72 hours to complete their assignment. Illya sat in the back of Von Koeinghoffer's car rubbing his right hand.

"Still sore?" Napoleon asked.

"Worse than this morning," Illya responded dryly.

Napoleon looked up at Gretchen, who told Solo that a physical therapist evaluated the hand. Solo threw a glance to Illya next. "Atilla?"

"How did you know?"

"Will you be able to type?" Gretchen asked.

"'Atilla' said that typing might actually be therapeutic."

"Oh, and Illya, you need not worry about Herr Kaufmann," Napoleon smiled. "By now..." he checked his watch "...he should be arriving somewhere near one of Thrush's Northern Russian outposts. I assume he'll adjust to a colder climate."

Illya eyebrows raised.

"And I doubt he'll use that nasty green drug again," Solo continued. "He had complained that Peter Hecht needed more data on the drug. Well, he can fill his friend in on its effects while they settle in to their new location."

* * * * *

Von Koeinghoffer's car pulled through the security gates before 5 pm. Josef Chalkler met the car as it drove up to the office. Gretchen got out first, followed by Von Koeinghoffer's guards, then Erich himself. Illya was last, looking somewhat dazed and disoriented. He staggered slightly when escorted into Gretchen's apartment Von Koeinghoffer remained in the office with Chalkler.

"He just spent the past two days being detoxified," Von Koeinghoffer said. "I'm still not sure whether or not his reconditioning has been compromised, but let me give you this warning once more. If you or any of your men lay a hand on him, Herr Kaufmann will be having a class reunion at his new post. Do I make myself clear?"

"Of course, Erich, but you must realize I had nothing to..."

Von Koeinghoffer cut him off. "You were the officer in charge in my absence. You failed to protect him."

"With all due respect, you left Reuger to watch him as well. Even he couldn't keep Kuryakin safe."

"Reuger is no longer with us. Need I say more?"

_Rolf Reuger had been immediately relieved of his assignment and remanded back to UNCLE Berlin to assess his performance. Alexander Waverly was notified of the incident and furious with Reuger's ineptness. The young agent was suspended and detained, pending an investigation with possible dismissal._

The plan was business as usual...for now. Gretchen was to continue her regular work schedule in the prison office. Von Koeinghoffer planned to spend time with Kuryakin, pumping him for as much information as possible. Kuryakin was to comply.  
  
Illya began working on the Thrush's UNCLE files immediately. He had already finished over three hundred, with perhaps another 80 to change. He estimated making through 40 tonight, and the other 40 tomorrow. Gretchen and Napoleon left him alone, his silence occasionally broken by chuckles and snorts of laughter as he bastardized the files. And as before, he meticulously checked the original dates and altered the computer's internal calendar to match it as he worked.

He checked current entries. No new entries from Paris. Obviously the mole had been found and the leak stopped.

After several hours the fingers on his right hand ached. Typing became cumbersome and difficult. Napoleon offered to take over typing once the computer configurations were changed. It was his turn to break the silence with laughter at the absurdity of his alteration.

"Did you know that Eduardo Peña has been balding since the age of 15?" Napoleon asked. Anyone knowing Eduardo knows he's as vain as a peacock about his hair. The man never has a strand out of place.

"Have you gotten to Alexis Hightower yet?" Illya asked.

"Yup!"

"What have you done with her?"

"She suddenly developed an allergy to rouge," Napoleon laughed.

Illya chuckled. Alexis Hightower, a secretary in UNCLE's London office, has a penchant for rouge and uses it rather lavishly. Reddish cheeks became her trademark.  
  
While Napoleon typed, Gretchen and Illya played chess, interrupted only when Solo was about to start a new file. Illya made the configuration changes, then his partner continued typing. The two men outlasted Gretchen, who went to sleep about 2 am. They worked until a little after 3, then went to sleep themselves.

Illya quietly stepped into Gretchen's bedroom and undressed before getting under the covers with her. She was sound asleep and never heard him come in.

  
**Wednesday, 3 September**  
  
The alarm rang at 7:30, waking Illya out of a deep sleep. Gretchen reached over Illya's head to shut it off, looking into his pale blue eyes as she eased herself down on to the mattress.

"Good morning," she cooed into his ear.

"Hmmm." His eyes closed again.

Her warm hand slid across his chest, waking him up a little more.

"Aren't you going to be late for work?" Illya asked, hoping she would stop.

"No. I set the clock a little earlier so we could spend some quiet time together."

"You're not being very quiet," he responded coldly.

"Are you still upset about yesterday?"

"What do you think? Of course I am."

"But you came to bed with me. So obviously you're not too upset."

"The couch was taken."

Illya could have kicked himself for being so sarcastic. The impotence was a sensitive issue, and he was conflicted with it and his desire to be with Gretchen.

"I understand."

Gretchen sat up, but Illya pulled her back before she left.

"I'm sorry. I'm being a real idiot. You don't deserve this." Illya held her close to his bare chest and kissed her hard on the mouth. "Just be patient in case...uh...things aren't working as they should."

"Mmmm." She returned his passion. "Patience is my middle name."  
  
Slightly before 8, the time Gretchen needed to shower and get dressed, Illya's groin responded...finally.

* * * * *

  
The phone rang on Gretchen's desk after she returned from lunch. Her expression turned serious during the conversation and he face was pale by the time she hung up the receiver.

"Is something wrong?" Josef asked with concern.

"Ja. My Aunt Flora in Bern had a heart attack yesterday. That was her daughter Ilse."

"Is it serious?"

"At the moment, she in an intensive care unit at the Bern Hospital."

"Did you want to go see her?"

"If I could, that would be great. Ilse said if I visit, to come on Thursday. It's too hectic there now. She being stabilized, and should be in better condition for company tomorrow." Gretchen looked Josef in the eyes. "You don't mind if I go? I should be back by Friday or Saturday if all goes well."

"Of course not. Is there anything I can do?"

"Thank you, no. I'll finish up all the work I can today and tomorrow."

**Thursday, 4 September**

Illya finished all but one file by night time. He spent one final, wonderful night with Gretchen, barely sleeping at all.

In the morning, Gretchen went to work as usual. Von Koeinghoffer spent the day "questioning" Kuryakin, who continued to oblige his captor. Chalkler sweet-talked Petros into disturbing Von Koeinghoffer several times, and each time, Erich let him come in to see what he was gleaning from Kuryakin.

"We're at New York already," Von Koeinghoffer boasted. "Shortly, no UNCLE headquarters or installation will be safe from us."

"So how does one get into the New York headquarters?" Chalkler asked, reading the information over Von Koeinghoffer's shoulder.

"Are you familiar with New York?" the boss asked.

"Somewhat."

"Well, one entrance is on the corner of 42nd Street and 4th Avenue, inside a donut shop."

"Clever. How secure is the facility?"

"Hmmm, that's next, right Illya?"

Illya sat silently, eyes diverted from both Von Koeinghoffer and Chalkler.

Von Koeinghoffer kicked Kuryakin's shoe. "Right?"

"Right," the blond agent said softly, humiliated.

The Thrush chief turned to Josef. "Please leave. I need to get back to my interrogation."

After lunch, Kuryakin was returned to the prison population, all seven of them, while Von Koeinghoffer left the premises with his entourage. This time, Andreas Petros was left to monitor Kuryakin, and he stayed with visual range of his charge at all times.

* * * * *

  
Several hours after nightfall, Erich Von Koeinghoffer's car returned to the prison. Two of his personal guards bodily helped him from the car to the apartment, right past Chalkler and Gretchen, followed by one new guard carrying a large box of partially consumed liquor bottles.

"He had a little too much to drink this evening," Gunther explained, smiling sheepishly. "We celebrated my birthday."

"Who's the new guard?" Gretchen asked Chalkler.

"Antonio Galli, at your service, Fraulein," the new guard said, gallantly kissing her hand. He spoke with a thick Italian accent. "I am replacing Rolf Reuger."

Gretchen blushed slightly at his introduction and gently pulled her hand back.

"The pleasure is all mine, Herr Galli."

Galli followed Von Koeinghoffer and his entourage into the apartment.

Her gaze followed Galli until the door closed.

"Good looking man, eh Gretchen?" Josef chided.

"Ja," she answered distantly, still looking at her apartment door. Galli was tall, tan, well built, and very Italian.

"What time will you be leaving for Bern tonight?"

"Whenever Erich can give me a lift to the airport. I called for available flights, and the airline told me that they fly through the night. I'll buy my ticket when I get there."

The apartment door opened half an hour later. Antonio Galli came out.

"Excuse me, Fraulein. Herr Von Koeinghoffer wants to question Kuryakin. Where would I find him?"

Gretchen blushed again. "In the prisoner's quarters. Outside and last building on the left."

"Thank you," and he kissed her hand once more.

"I could live with that," she sighed after he left.  
  
Moments later Galli came back with Illya Kuryakin, who appeared not too thrilled after being awakened and brought to the office for questioning. Galli overtly winked at Gretchen as he passed, shamelessly flirting.

"I doubt he'd be that brazen if Erich were a bit more sober," Josef chuckled. He looked at his watch, not realizing it was well past 10:30. "I've been at this desk all day and I'm exhausted," he said, yawning and stretching. "I'm going to bed." He paused. "Care to join me?"

Gretchen looked dumbstruck for a moment, then smiled. "You know, if I wasn't planning to go to Bern, I might have just taken you up on that." She walked over and kissed him on the cheek.

"Oh well. Can't blame a man for trying, eh?" He embraced her in a warm hug. "I hope your Aunt Flora feels better. I'll see you when you get back."

Gretchen stayed at her desk a short time longer, making sure Chalkler was in for the night. She entered her apartment to see Illya typing away at the computer, augmenting his final file.

"I'm almost done," he said, smiling devilishly. Several more clicks of the keys and he finally announced that his work was completed.

Erich Von Koeinghoffer still lay in Gretchen's bed, drunk and barely semi-conscious. His body reeked of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke, his clothing stained with spilled drinks and urine he could no longer contain. Illya, the two guards and Antonio Galli took one last look at him before leaving to take Gretchen to the airport.

The guards escorted Illya back to the prisoners' quarters. The men were asleep and unaware of his return. He promptly went into the bathroom and took off his clothes. Underneath his jeans and T-shirt he wore a Thrush uniform.

He balled up his clothing and placed them under the pillow on his bunk. Luckily, no one heard him so far. Tip-toeing on the hard wooden floors, Illya managed to make it to the exit unseen. The door never shut completely behind him.

Once outside, he was scot free. Illya walked to pit where the new foundation was being dug with the self assurance of a Thrush guard and quickly gathered up a length of rope. None of the other guards' suspicion was roused, and they ignored him as he walked by in the darkness, curtly nodding to them.

The rope was thrown over the top of the wall, slip knotted like before until it finally caught. Once it was secured, Illya walked away.

The engine to Erich Von Koeinghoffer's car started up as Illya walked near. He opened the door to the back and entered.

"Ah, I'd like to be a fly on the wall when Erich wakes up," Antonio Galli laughed.

"So would I, Napoleon," Illya said, smiling from ear to ear.

  
**Early morning: Friday, 5 September**  
  
The sounds of quick stepping boots woke Erich Von Koeinghoffer out of his sound sleep. The bedroom door flew open without the courtesy of even a single knock. Von Koeinghoffer's head ached. He looked at the mob of angry Thrush high officials seemingly advancing in slow motion. They were screaming at him, yelling questions about what he had done the night before. The words tore through his hung over brain, making very little sense at all.

Von Koeinghoffer looked around. He was on a bed...this looked like a woman's bedroom...his toiletries were on the bureau...his clothing hung over chairs...

 _Where the hell am I_ , he thought, rubbing his eyes.

"...did you know that..." one voice bellowed at him...

"...and Kuryakin escaped last night..." a second one was hollering...

"...computer system was..." a third voice shrieked...

"...our installations are under attack..." the second voice continued...  
  
"I don't know what you're taking about!" Von Koeinghoffer was finally able to say. "How the hell did I get here?"

"Your guards brought you in last night, Erich. Like a drunken sailor," Josef Chalkler told him.

"And in your inebriated condition, Illya Kuryakin escaped." One official yelled, waving his arms frantically.

"Kuryakin?"

"Yes. He got rope and climbed over the wall."

"If the other prisoners weren't so dumb, they would have escaped as well!" Josef added.

"That's impossible!" The Thrush chief muttered. He then got silent, not knowing whether or not to divulge that he had been abducted by UNCLE several weeks back or maintain his silence.  
  
An explosion rocked the compound. The Thrush men ran outside to see the main security gate blown open by plastique explosives. Guards and prisoners alike were yelling and running towards the thick cloud of smoke surrounding the entrance. The Thrush officials hurried over to the site of the blast only to find a gaping hole in the gate and the prisoners long gone from it.

A second explosion detonated from behind them, then a third, fourth and fifth. Once the smoke had lifted, the contents of the prison compound had been reduced to rubble.

**One Week Later:**  
  
The leaves had just begun to turn their glorious shades of red and orange in Bernard, Maine. From the deck of the secluded cabin overlooking the harbor, the foursome watch see the autumn splendor increase their fiery tones as the days passed.

Late afternoons were cool. Woolen sweaters and corduroy slacks were _de riguer_ for comfort. The foursome sat on the deck, basking in the warmth of the autumn sunshine which helped wash away all the stress and strain of the past few weeks. The too-familiar sound of an UNCLE communicator's beep broke the silence.

"Solo here," Napoleon said after fishing the pen from under his sweater.

"You haven't checked in today as planned, Mr. Solo. Is everything all right?" Mr. Waverly's clipped voice asked.

"Yes, Sir. Bernard Maine is secured. No Thrush activity here at the moment."

Marta laughed silently.

"And is Mr. Kuryakin taking time to fully recover?"

"Absolutely, Sir. I'm making sure of it."

"Very well. Enjoy the rest of your holiday."

The communicator went silent. Napoleon tucked it away.

Illya was on sick leave for two weeks after Dr. Abramson insisted that Kuryakin never had time to recuperate from any of his injuries. Napoleon, Gretchen and Marta took well deserved vacation time from their jobs. They had another week together at the cabin while they all recharged their internal batteries.

"Do you think he knows about the illicit activities going on in Bernard, Maine?" Gretchen asked, moving closer to Illya for warmth.

"He knows everything," Illya replied as he wrapped his arm around her. "I assume word or yours and Marta's coincidental requests for holiday leave passed over his desk."

"So how bad to you think Von Koeinghoffer's life is at the moment?" Marta asked, smiling wickedly.

Napoleon shook his head. "I doubt they're giving him the red carpet treatment. After all, screwed up the computer system, caused the downfall of several Thrush installations, and gave Illya the opportunity to escape all in the same night...and the poor guy never knew what hit him. To top it off, the Pützen compound is history and all their prisoners escaped. I doubt he even told his superiors that he UNCLE kidnapped him." Napoleon's mood darkened. "He deserves Thrush's wrath...and then some."

"I sent Josef Chalkler a note telling him that I ran off with Antonio Galli after visiting my poor sick aunt in Bern," Gretchen chuckled. "Antonio was rather attractive." She smiled and sighed. "I can return to my normal, humdrum life now."

"Won't Thrush investigate Galli? Try to find out who he really is?" Marta asked, concerned about her friend's cover.

"I took care of that," Illya boasted. "Antonio Galli is officially in the Thrush data base. I gave him a really tawdry background, lecherous enough make even Napoleon proud."

They all sat back enjoying the afternoon autumn sun and each other's company, knowing in seven short days, Gretchen and Marta would fly home to Germany while Illya and Napoleon return to New York. They would all go back to their regular lives, not knowing when they'd be graced by each others' company again.

**Finis**


End file.
